


Reap What You Sow

by endstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety Disorder, Family Issues, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gardener Castiel, Gardens & Gardening, Homophobic John, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's Bad Parenting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 36,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endstiel/pseuds/endstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Milton is a reclusive gardener. He’s always preferred the company of his flowers to that of his peers, and he tells himself he’s quite content with his peaceful life. Dean Winchester is a duty-driven twenty year-old who grew up taking care of his younger brother, Sam. He doesn’t bother lying and saying he’s content, but he deals.</p><p>After Dean crashes his motorcycle in Cas’ garden, destroying five years of love and devotion, he starts working for Cas, regrowing his garden from the ground up. It’s a tentative friendship at first, but as the garden grows closer to completion they may both find something that will make them truly content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Raven](http://adamprrsh.tumblr.com/), [Maria](http://jsnsenackles.tumblr.com/), and [Michelle](http://unholyseraphs.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [My tumblr](http://endstiel.tumblr.com/) | [Reap What You Sow Playlist](http://8tracks.com/endstiel/reap-what-you-sow) | [Graphic](http://endstiel.tumblr.com/post/89300782225/reap-what-you-sow-ao3-fanmix-deancas)

** "Here Comes the Fall" **

** Chapter Track: _Pioneer to the Falls_  - Berlinist (Interpol Cover)**

 

Castiel Milton isn’t terribly fond of people; through the years, he has always found himself preferring the company of his garden to that of his peers. In fact, he spends most of his time in his garden, whiling away the hours under the canopy of trees and flowers. It doesn’t matter what he does in his garden, whether it’s watering the plants or reading in the shade as the day rolls by, so long as he has his flowers, he’s content.

His brother, Gabriel, is worried, though, saying that spending so much time by himself is unhealthy and sooner or later he’ll have to venture in the real world and socialize with people rather than plants. But Castiel just ignores his concerned lectures and continues watering his peonies.

Gabriel doesn’t understand the full extent of Castiel’s obsession with his garden, or at least that’s what Castiel’s psychiatrist, Dr. Fitzgerald, says, anyway. On one session, he said that Castiel’s fondness for plants most likely sprouted from his social anxiety. Castiel can connect to plants in the way he’s too afraid to connect with people, and he makes up for his lack of socialization by spending time in his garden and taking care of his flowers.

And for the most part, he agrees with Dr. Fitzgerald’s analysis. Castiel wants to have friends; to have someone that can listen to him and not judge him for his strange habits or for getting panic attacks more often than a grown man should. But finding someone like that seems nearly an impossible task and Castiel had given up even before he had the chance to try. Trying means the possibility of failure and failure means the possibility of embarrassment and regret, and those are not emotions Castiel wants to feel.

He is content in the small, simple bubble that is his life. He’s content being the awkward twenty-six year old recluse that people make fun of at the grocery store and he is content having no friends to call when something funny happens or when he accidentally makes too many cookies. Even when the days seem to grey like a fading bruise and he wakes up to a cold bed with only the covers to warm him, Castiel assures himself he’s content.

And he tells as much to the peonies.

 * * *

Unlike Castiel Milton, Dean Winchester is not content with his life, and he isn’t going to lie to himself into thinking it. At twenty years old, he has learned to tolerate most things― tolerate the way his dad comes home from ‘work’ reeking of alcohol, tolerate the pitying smiles on people’s faces when he tells them he isn’t going to college, and tolerate the way he has to work two jobs to make sure their family can pay rent and buy groceries. Yes, Dean Winchester is most definitely not content with his life, but complaining doesn’t pay the bills or make sure his little brother, Sammy, is happy, so he’s learned to tolerate shit. No matter what that shit may be.

However, despite his attempts to remain tolerant and uncomplaining, Dean has quickly realized that there is one thing he can’t remain tolerant of when his father, John, comes home yelling and barking slurs at Dean. 

But then again, maybe it isn’t the names he’s being called or the stench of alcohol that accompanies them, maybe it’s just the final straw atop a slew of others that finally makes him snap.

While he usually sits in silence, waiting for his father to finish screaming, this time, he stands, matching his father’s height, and screams back. And for the first time since he was four, he tells his father exactly what he thinks. 

In a single breath, everything spills out into the air around them― how Dean is sick of working two jobs while John sulks in a bar for god-knows-how-long, how Dean does everything for Sam in their father’s place, how, yeah, maybe he actually _wanted_ to go to college to study engineering, but stuck around for him and Sam, and that John is the last person on the goddamn earth who is allowed to curse at him like that.

And before John can react to his son’s outburst, Dean is out the door, hopping on his motorcycle and revving the engine angrily before taking off down the paved road with the bike roaring, announcing his departure. 

The bike is a cheap, old thing he found at a yard sale a couple towns over, and even when he bought it some months ago, it was obvious the machine was in desperate need of a fix up, but Dean can’t be worried about that now; he just has to get out, to leave for a while. 

Dean isn’t sure where he’s going, or even how far he will go. He just wants to drive until his head stops pounding and his hands stop shaking from adrenaline from the fight. 

He has never snapped at his dad before, only ever took what his father pelted with silence and obedience like a good soldier. And for the most part, he’s tolerant of the insults. They’re usually the obvious choice, anyway― how Dean is always home late (from late hours working, not that John would realize) or how he’s lazy because there’s never enough food in the pantry or the Impala is in desperate need of a tune up― but tonight, tonight is different. Instead of shooting half-assed curses at Dean, John decided to hit him where it hurt the most; the one fault he can’t change about himself, the one thing he has tried so hard to hide from his family, but obviously can’t. 

And that embarrassment Dean feels about being caught red handed indulging in his guilty pleasure is what makes him snap for the first time in, well, forever.

The wind blows in his face leaving his eyes dry and irritated as he races down the deserted stretch of road. With shaky hands, he lets go of his handle bars for a moment to rub at them, but just as he lets go, the steering wheel shifts from the uneven control and the bike turns abruptly, sending himself and the machine flying into someone’s yard.

He tumbles over a couple flower beds, landing in the section of roses, and the motorcycle speeds across the yard, twisting and turning, seeming to run over every untouched flower bed as the wheels dig deep into the dirt, ripping the plants to shreds. Dean watches the bike turn, running straight into the white picket fence in a loud crash and the engine finally dies out in a fit of sputters and clicks. With a shaky sigh, he leans back onto the cold dirt of the flowerbed and closes his eyes in a futile attempt to stop his pounding head and the tears stinging his eyes.

_I am so screwed._

 


	2. Chapter 2

** "Take the Cards You're Dealt" **

** Chapter Track: _Bible Belt Acoustic_  - Dry the River**

 

When Castiel wakes up to the sound of a engine followed by a loud skidding and crash, he immediately knows something is wrong. First of all, he lives on a private road and cars passing through is an unusual occurrence at best. And secondly, he is fairly certain that a loud crash hardly ever means something good, especially at night.

Without bothering to change out of his striped blue pajamas, Castiel slides out of his bed and creeps down the stairs to investigate, grabbing an old lamp from his nightstand because he doesn’t have a shotgun or baseball bat to protect himself.

He tiptoes quietly through the house, wielding the lamp in front of him, until he reaches the backdoor. He enters his passcode number into the household security system so the alarm won’t go off when he opens the door and takes a deep breath.

_It’s probably just a raccoon or a coyote that got into the tools in the back_ , he assures himself, running his fingers along the cool handle of the door. _It’s probably nothing_.

Knowing he’ll never gather enough courage to face the creature outside by just standing and waiting there, Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and in one quick move, he turns the handle and swings the open the door, stepping outside into his garden.

However, when he opens his eyes to look around for the raccoon or coyote probably running around his garden somewhere, he realizes he isn’t actually in his garden, or at least, not the garden he had been taking care of this afternoon.

No. His garden is beautifully designed with ivy vining up the trellis and sides of his house, creating a beautiful canopy he can rest under in the shade. His garden has beds full of colorful flowers and plants and there’s even a section for fruits and vegetables to grow as well. His garden has a fountain he built himself and a couple statues of angels praying in the beds. No, _no_. _This_ isn’t his garden.

Whatever he’s looking at now― this shambled mess of dirt and flower petals and what looks to be a piece of malfunctioning machinery lodged in his fence― is not his garden. It isn’t. It can’t be. There is no way something that had been so beautiful, could become something so hideous in a matter of minutes. No. It’s not possible.

“H-how?” he hears himself stammer, sinking to his knees, as he processes the scene in front of him. 

How is this possible? He had worked so hard on this garden, meticulously planning and designing where every single plant would go and how it would look when the flowers would bloom in spring. Every day he had spent time in his garden, watering and talking to his plants, making sure they were healthy and happy as if they were his own children― no, _because_ they are his own children. This is so much more than just a garden, this is his life, his connection to the world, the only thing he cares about, the only thing that would never leave him or judge him like people would. No. This isn’t just a garden or five years of his life, this is a piece of him― a piece now gone because someone decided to run off the side of the road in the middle of the night. 

No. Just, _no_. 

A strange choking sound pierces through the heavy silence and he barely realizes that it was him who made the noise before it happens again, and soon he’s in a fit of tears, gasping for breath, crawled up in a ball in the dirt in the middle of his used-to-be garden.

 * * * 

Dean opens his eyes when he hears the noise. At first he thinks it’s someone choking or at least gasping in pain from being brutally murdered, but as he sits up, his brain still pounding against his skull, he realizes he isn’t witnessing an impromptu murder, but instead watching a man cry. Well, cry probably isn’t the right word. _A nervous breakdown would be more fitting_ , Dean thinks as he watches the man writhe on the garden’s ground, tears streaming down his puffy, red cheeks.

But the longer he watches, the less funny the scene becomes and the more Dean notices how deeply the man seems to be in pain over this; maybe not of the psychical kind perhaps, but definitely emotionally and sometimes that can bear a greater pain than a broken bone. Dean would know.

Dean approaches the sobbing man, crawling over shredded petals and debris from his crash. With bruised fingers, he reaches out and hesitantly touches the man who jumps slightly at the contact. It probably hadn’t occurred to the man that there’s someone else in the garden with him.

The man gawks at Dean, his blue eyes rimmed in shades of red, and Dean doesn’t realize he’s crying too until he chokes out a, “Fuck― I-I am so sorry, man. It was an accident, I swear. Just, please don’t tell my dad, he’ll kill me.”

And as the words leave his lips, the seriousness of the situation finally sets in; not only had he yelled at his dad, but he also took his bike and crashed it into someone’s house, destroying their property completely. Leave it to Dean to fuck things up beyond recognition within an hour and add yet another item to the never ending list of mistakes his dad would yell at him about. 

Dean Winchester: king of all screw-ups.

Dean chokes out a few sobs as his mind swarms with thoughts of how his father will react to hearing what had happened― his disgust, the way he’ll sneer and yell about how much of a disappointment Dean is. He’s shaking so hard, too consumed in the upcoming lashing his father is bound to give, Dean almost doesn’t realize a warm body wrapping their arms around him, and pulling him close into an awkward, yet comforting embrace.

“J-just please don’t tell my dad. Don’t tell my dad. You can’t tell him. Please―” he whimpers into the darkness until the pounding in his head is too much to handle and with a final gasp, he drifts into a strange silence beside the stranger as they sit in the middle of the darkened used-to-be-garden.

“I won’t tell him,” the man murmurs after a moment of heavy breathing and sniffles filling the air between them. “I won’t tell your dad.”

Dean can only nod in reply and choke out a barely coherent ‘thank you.’


	3. Chapter 3

** "Only Me" **

** Chapter Track: _Trees & Flowers_ \- Dum Dum Girls**

 

Castiel isn’t sure how exactly he got into this position. He remembers breaking down and crying at the sight of his garden in shambles; he remembers feeling terrified and embarrassed when he realized the person who had done it was still there with him; and he remembers the other man― no, the boy, he can’t be older than twenty― approaching him and crying with him, begging Castiel not to tell his dad in between hitched breaths. At some point Castiel must have grabbed him and held him as they both sobbed. 

And what a sight it must be; two strangers crying in each other’s arms in the middle of a defaced garden. How pathetic it must look.

Eventually, their violent sobs fade into deep, slow breaths, shifting into a sort of odd unspoken conversation between the two men. Castiel inhales and the boy exhales, and as the boy breathes in, Castiel breathes out. And it’s in the calm after the panic, that Castiel murmurs a reply, “I won’t tell him. I won’t tell your dad.”

The boy sighs in relief, nodding his thanks, before the two men pull apart from their embrace, skin slightly sticking together from the dirt and sweat.

“So,” Castiel begins after a moment, not really knowing how to finish. “How, er, what happened?”

The boy huffs out a bitter laugh, which isn’t so much of a laugh as it is pushing air from his lungs, as he rubs his green eyes with dirty hands, “I was drivin’ down the road and lost control of the damn bike at the wrong time,” he says and glances around the destroyed garden with a penitent gaze.“But I’m sorry about your garden, man.”

Castiel nods, stifling a breath and trying not to think too hard about his destroyed garden, knowing if he does, he’ll be sent back into another fit of panic.

“Castiel,” he says after a long pause.

“Huh?”

“My name,” he replies, trying to smile softly. “In case you’d like to know the name of the owner of the garden you destroyed.”

“And mine’s Dean; in case you’d like to know the name of the person who destroyed your garden.”

Castiel reaches out his dirty hand for Dean to take and as they shake, Castiel murmurs, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

“You too.”

A few more moments of silence pass as Dean and Castiel glance around awkwardly, not really knowing what to do, and finally, Dean stands, brushing himself off. “I guess I should probably, uh, get going then, huh?”

Castiel nods, standing up alongside Dean. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you have a pen and paper I could write my address on so you can send me the bill for the, uh, damages?” Dean asks and Castiel hums quietly in reply, stepping over the abandoned lamp on the ground to open the door, and motions for Dean to follow.

The inside of the house is dark and Castiel leads Dean from the living room to the kitchen connected to it. After turning on the light, he opens a drawer, pulling out a stationery pad and pen for Dean who scribbles his information, then sets the pen on the pad.

“I’ll get out of your hair now,” he says, nodding briefly before making his way to the back door. “Sorry about your garden again.”

Castiel follows Dean outside, watching the boy jerk the motorcycle out from where it’s wedged in the broken fence. He stands, curious, as Dean brushes it off, standing it upright to get balance before hopping on it, flicking a few buttons, and shoving the key into the ignition. Dean glances behind him, waving slightly at Castiel, then turns his attention back to the bike and tries to prod the engine which roars to life for a few seconds before dying in a series of sputters and coughs.

Dean grunts, glancing over the machine, and tries to prod the engine again but to no avail. Castiel watches him for a few more minutes, trying to kickstart it, before giving up and turning back around.

“Hey, would you mind push starting it for me?”

Castiel nods and approaches Dean. “Are you sure that thing is safe to drive anyway?” he asks, leaning over and inspecting the bike. He isn’t an expert in machinery, he can barely drive his car properly, but even he knows a motorcycle shouldn’t be making noises like that. 

“ _That thing_ is my only way home, so whether it’s safe to drive or not isn’t really my―”

“Yeah, but Dean, that motorcycle is the reason you’re in this mess, isn’t it? I mean, the last thing you’d want to do is crash again on your way home.”

“What do you suggest I do then? Walk back?”

“Stay here,” Castiel replies, and from the strange look Dean is giving him, he quickly adds, “I have a couch you can sleep on and in the morning, I’ll drive you back; I have a truck you can throw the motorcycle in the back of. I mean, I could drive you back tonight, but it’s getting late― almost two last time I checked― and―”

“Are you serious?”

“What?” Castiel furrows his brow.

“Dude, I just wrecked your entire garden and we had a sobfest for at least a half an hour. You can’t seriously be offering me a place to stay after the damage I caused.”

“Well…” Castiel trails off, thinking. Why is he giving Dean a place to stay? The guy’s right― he totally destroyed the one thing Castiel lived for― and now he’s offering the guy a couch and shelter for the night? It doesn’t make sense. After a moment, Castiel shrugs. “It just seems like the right thing to do, I guess.”

Dean stares at the man a few moments longer, biting his lip in concentration looking as if he were trying to figure out Castiel’s true motives of offering.

_Good luck with that,_ Castiel thinks. _I don’t know myself._

Finally, Dean gives a resigned shrug and slides off his bike, making his way up to the house as Castiel follows behind. “Fine,” he grunts. “As long as you don’t kill me in the middle of the night.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll take me back in the morning?”

“Of course.”

The two men make their way into the house and Dean awkwardly waits in the living room as Castiel gets blankets and pillows from the hallway closet. Once he returns moments later, they begin setting up the makeshift bed on the couch.

After placing the final pillow atop the sheets and knit blanket, they mutter awkward ‘good nights’ and Dean settles on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but as Castiel turns, flipping off the light switch and making his way upstairs, he hears a faint “Thanks, Cas.”

And he smiles faintly, glancing back at the boy on the couch, not sure why the gesture warms him, “Goodnight, Dean.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter was ready to go like two weeks ago, but a couple days ago I got a new idea and had to rewrite a huge chunk of this chapter. It's been beta'd and everything by the perfect [Maria](http://jsnsenackles.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

** "It Rests Unsolved" **

** Chapter Track: _A Song for Thalia_  - Berlinist**

 

Dean wakes up a few hours later as the sun streams through the wide windows into the living room. He sits upright, dangling his feet off the edge of the surprisingly comfortable sofa, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. As they finally focus right, separating blurry objects from the bright morning light, the first thing he makes out from behind the glare of the light is the garden. Or at least what’s left of it. 

Just from looking out of the window, he can see the deep tracks the motorcycle wheels had left, digging through the grass and ripping apart the different shrubs and flowers. His eyes trace the direct path from where the motorcycle began to lose control to where it crashed through the fence. He can even see the trampled plants his body had tumbled over and crushed after being tossed off the bike.

A strange heaviness pools in his stomach as he views his work. How could he fuck up so badly in one night?

He sighs, standing up and begins pulling off and folding the blankets and sheets he had used. He imagines that Castiel would probably want to wash them considering they’re smudged and stained from his dirty clothes and skin, but it seems kind of rude to leave them on the couch for Castiel to clean up himself.

Speaking of Castiel, it doesn’t seem like he’s awake yet. He said he’d drive Dean back home in the morning, so it isn’t like Dean can leave now, but he also isn’t sure if he’s supposed to sit around and wait for him to wake up.

He surveys his surroundings as he waits on the couch, eyes looking everywhere but the huge windows displaying the evidence of his misdeeds in front of him. 

The house is small and cozy, almost cottage-like, with soft yellow walls and what looks to be handcrafted furniture resting atop fuzzy carpet that tickles his toes as he stands up to walk around the living room. 

There’s a small brick fireplace built in the center of one wall with two tall bookshelves on either side. He walks past the shelves, scanning book titles, plucking one from it’s home every now and then to read the back. There’s a couple, maybe one or two, he remembers reading, or being assigned to read, in high school, but for the most part, the books on Castiel’s shelf are pretty much foreign to him. _Cry, the Beloved Country_ by Alan Paton, _Our Town_ by Thornton Wilder, _A Tale of Genji_ by Murasaki Shikibu. What is a _Genji_? What the fuck are these books?

Dean grunts, shaking his head in disbelief at some of the titles, until a familiar name on the spine catches his eye and he finds himself stiffening as he reads the title. _Plight of Righteous Men_ by James Novak. He slowly pulls the book off the shelf, carefully turning it around to read the back even though he already knows what it says.

_'After an argument with his father, Benedict Windsor runs away from his home in Rome to Geneva in the spring of 1562 where he meets the theologian writer Christian Tausen. They form a deep friendship and even when Benedict returns to Rome where he takes over the family business and eventually marries a young local woman, Benedict and Christian remain great friends. Over the course of four years, their bond becomes stronger and they realize they love one another on a level deeper than friendship.'_

He laughs almost bitterly to himself as he reads the book’s summary, thinking that it’s kind of funny that Castiel would own this book and that he would find it almost waiting for him on the shelf. After all, this novel, this ‘fucking piece of shit written by a perverted fag,’ as his father so eloquently put it, is more or less the reason for the mess he’s in currently. 

His friend Charlie had given it to him and he had only gotten a few chapters into it before it was ripped from his hands and disposed of in the Winchester way by his dad. And now that he thinks about it, it’s also kind of funny that a simple book, an object consisting of ink and paper, could make his dad so angry. 

Even so, despite his father’s rage and the huge mess he’s in now because of it, Dean still wonders about the ending. It’s about a gay couple during the protestant reformation, so it probably won’t end happy. But the writing is beautiful and the characters are developed and fleshed out, so the ending should be well written and powerful, if not happy nor hopeful.

Though, after their argument last night and the way his dad reacted to seeing the book, there’s no way John would let him finish it, regardless of how well written the novel is. But just because John destroyed one copy of the book doesn’t mean Dean isn’t curious about the rest of the story. Maybe one day he’ll be able to finish it.

Taking a final look at the book in his hands, Dean places it back on the shelf and makes his way into the kitchen. He slides onto one of the tall chairs at the island and glances over at the clock on the oven. 7:03 AM. Hopefully Castiel will wake up soon, he has to be at the garage by nine.

Dean spends the next few moments, wondering what he’ll do if Castiel doesn’t wake up before nine, deciding that waking the man would just be too awkward and he’ll have to call Bobby instead to let him know he was running late. 

He shifts his attention to the vase in front of him, absentmindedly counting the petals on each flower to pass the time, until his stomach growls and he can’t help but glance longingly at the fridge, trying to decide if it would rude or not to eat Castiel’s food. Well, maybe if he _makes_ breakfast for them both, it’d okay because it’d be a gesture of thanks or whatever. Dean wonders if Castiel is the type of guy to be really weirded out by that sort of thing, but he shrugs it off, because he’s already screwed up enough shit and what more harm could breakfast do?

After scouring the fridge for ingredients, Dean makes a mental list of inventory; eggs, some expensive brand of swiss cheese, cream, ham, a container of Pillsbury dough, and butter. Okay, he’ll make soufflés then. They aren’t too difficult to make and it’ll probably impress Castiel, so that’ll be good.

Cracking his knuckles, Dean sets to work, clicking a couple buttons to preheat the oven and measuring out the proper ingredients. He cuts up chunks of ham and cheese to mix in a bowl with the eggs and cream, and after heating up the egg mixture in the microwave for a few thirty-second intervals until it becomes a paste, he sets it aside to work on the dough.

As Dean rolls out the Pillsbury dough, sifting flour on top of it, and cutting it into two squares, his mind begins to wander, remembering the events of the night before. 

He remembers being so angry at his father for insulting him and yelling like that, so he had taken the broken bike for a ride to get a way for a few hours. He remembers losing control and crashing through someone’s yard and he remembers when Castiel came out, he had broken down at the sight of his garden in shambles.

Thinking back on it now, why had Castiel reacted that way? Dean has never seen anyone get that worked up over something like that, much less a garden.

He sprays the ramekins with Pam before spreading the dough down and around each dish, and spooning the egg paste into their middles.

In the short time Dean has known him, he can already tell Castiel is a weird guy. From his nearly over-dramatic reaction to seeing his garden, to his strange books, and the fact that he’s a grown man living in a house that looks like it came from a fairy tale; everything about that guy is a little odd. 

But he seems nice enough though, letting Dean stay the night even after the damage he caused, and he didn’t even try to kill Dean in his sleep, which is a plus. 

_So, he’s a weird dude_ , Dean thinks as he folds the rest of the dough so it’s not hanging off the sides of the ramekins. _But, hey, at least he’s not a crazy serial killer or something._

Dean finishes his little baking experiment by slightly buttering the top of the dough of each soufflé to create a golden color when it bakes, and slides both ramekins in the oven, setting the timer for twenty minutes. As he waits for the soufflés to bake, he cleans the dishes and makes his way back into the living room, hoping Castiel won’t mind if he reads a bit of _Plight of Righteous Men_ while he waits.

Holding the book in his hands, he sits on the couch, curling his legs underneath him. He opens the book, turning to the first page. Chapter One is a good place to start as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**   
>  [Summer Soufflé](http://www.bluebonnetsandbrownies.com/2011/06/26/ham-swiss-baked-egg-souffle-recipe/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Throughout this fic, there will be a lot of delicious recipes and gardening tips, so I'll be sure to include those in the author's notes for you to try as well ^ - ^


	5. Chapter 5

** "Please Slow it Down" **

** Chapter Track: _White Daisy Passing_ \- Rocky Votolato **

 

As is the case with every panic attack, Castiel wakes with a strange, nearly unsettling calmness filling the air. While yesterday his brain felt heavy and his body pounded and shook with every sob from his lips, today his body feels neutral and airy, almost like a fog. It’s not a happy feeling, nor a sad one at that, it’s just kind of dazed and apathetic. 

It’s not until he slides from his bed and makes his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth that he smells it― a delicious, warm smell of baking bread and eggs.

In almost a daze, he drifts down the stairs, following the smell to the kitchen, and peers inside the oven, smiling at the two soufflés inside. When was the last time he even had a soufflé? Years ago, probably, when Gabriel had taken him to France for his eighteenth birthday.

Wait, why are there even soufflés in his oven? Is he still dreaming?

“Good, you’re up,” a voice says, breaking the silence. He looks up to watch as Dean gets up from the couch and makes his way to the kitchen. 

Right, _Dean_. Castiel offered to let Dean sleep on couch last night. It hadn’t been a dream. 

He smiles lazily at Dean, before freezing slightly. If it isn’t a dream, that means Dean’s here because he― _his garden_. Is it really destroyed? It can’t be destroyed. But if Dean’s here, that means his garden must be destroyed, too. Oh, no. _No_.

Shit. Now Dean’s looking at him weird. Did he ask a question? He might have asked if it was okay that he made breakfast, but it's hard to tell because he’s blurring and his voice is slowing and oozing together like molasses. No, please make it stop. This can’t be happening. Not now. Whatever happened to the calm after the storm?

He feels nauseous, like he’s going to vomit. But he feels like if he does puke, all of his insides will come up with it. Oh, no. 

“Hey, man. Are you alright?” Dean asks, cautiously touching his shoulder and it’s like Castiel is somewhere outside of his body, watching the inactive shell of his body fall emotionless as Dean touches him. What’s happening? Why can’t he move? No, no. Not again. Not this again, please. Anything to not embarrass himself in front of this total stranger _again_.

“Castiel!” Dean calls again, this time more forcibly, and Castiel blinks, snapping out of his version of brief catatonia. He’s still shaking and the nausea is still there, distorting his thoughts, but at least he feels like he has control of his body again.

Too embarrassed to look Dean in the eye, Castiel makes his way to sit down at the island and hangs his head between his legs, hoping that position will help reduce the nausea and anxiety. 

“Are you okay, man?” Dean asks, cautiously. 

Castiel has to remind himself to take deep breaths, letting the oxygen clear his mind. _Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale_. Finally, after he feels he’s calmed down enough to where he can speak, he murmurs a “Y-yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just a thing that happens” only tripping over a couple words. 

“What happens?”

‘ _What happens?’ What a loaded question_ , Castiel thinks. What’s the best way he can describe it to make Dean understand, but still manage to sound partially sane. The last thing he wants is to sound crazy. Castiel might have anxiety and panic attacks that cloud his thinking, but he isn’t crazy. That’s what Doctor Fitzgerald said, anyway, and Castiel holds onto those words as if they’re his lifeline. He’s not crazy.

He sighs after a moment, finally settling on “I, uh, get these panic attacks every now and then...okay, a lot now and then. I― how do I explain this― if something happens that disrupts my peace, my balance I have, then I, uh, get this surge of anxiety and my body doesn’t know how to handle it. A-and I go into this sort of panic. My brain hurts and my body starts to tremor and I feel like I don’t have control of my own body anymore.”

A moment of silence passes and Castiel allows himself to glance up at Dean. To his surprise, Dean isn’t staring at him with pity, nor with scorn as Castiel had expected, but with something else. Something Castiel can’t name exactly and that in itself sends another surge of anxiety through his body. The fact that he has no idea what Dean is thinking right now, it’s probably even worse than seeing a look of disgust or pity because knows how to handle those; he’s dealt with the pity from his brother and neighbors, and the mocking from children who’ve watched him have a panic attack in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. He knows how to handle situations like that, but how does one handle a situation when they don’t know what the other person is thinking?

Instead of dwelling on it, though― the fear of the unknown― he tries to use the tools Doctor Fitzgerald taught him to get his mind off the anxiety and upcoming panic. _Focus on anything_ , Castiel hears his psychiatrist's words passing through his mind. _Focus on one thing and describe it in complete detail. That thing is your life support, it’s your everything in that single moment. Memorize every piece of it._

Castiel takes a deep breath, choosing to focus on the leather jacket hanging on the chair across him. He doesn’t own a leather jacket, his wardrobe consists of a few sweaters and cardigans and an old trench coat, so he guesses the garment belongs to Dean, though it seems almost too big for him and his body type. Not that Castiel was looking at his body close enough to determine that or anything. Just a thing he noticed at a glance.

The jacket itself is a dark, worn leather that looks beaten down from years, maybe even a couple decades, of use. The seams seem to be pulled and torn slightly at some parts and a button is barely hanging on to its thread.

_It’s been well loved_ , Castiel thinks and he remembers to breathe in and breathe out, just like Doctor Fitzgerald told him. 

A small ramekin filled with a fresh, right-out-of-the-oven soufflé inside slides right in front of his eye line, bringing him back into reality. He feels calmer now that he’s let his anxiety out through the methods he used. Cognitive Dissonance or something along those lines is what Doctor Fitzgerald called it, Castiel believes. 

He looks up as Dean slides into the chair across from him, with the leather jacket still hanging off the back, and places the second soufflé in front of himself before glancing up at Castiel, with an almost nervous look as he bites his lip. 

“That fucking sucks, man,” he says after a moment. “My...little brother used to get those all the time after―” he takes a short breath. “After our mom died a while back. Anxiety sucks.”

Castiel almost laughs at Dean’s word choice. He has heard people compare anxiety to a huge monster that no one else can see but yourself and he has heard people use phrases like ‘overwhelming dread’ and ‘out of control’ when describing his disorder, but he has never heard someone put it so lightly. 

Either way, Dean is right. It does suck.

“Your brother used to get anxiety and panic attacks?” He asks, reaching for his fork and prompting Dean to do the same. They both eat for a couple moments in an almost stunted silence, that isn't completely awkward, but just in the strange stage in which you’re between strangers and friends.

“Still does, sometimes, I guess.”

“What did he do to make them go away?”

Dean freezes for a moment, letting the fork hover in front of his mouth for a moment, before he replies. “Nothing.”


	6. Chapter 6

** “Remember Me to One Who Lives There” **

** Chapter Track: _Scarborough Fair_ \- Simon  & Garfunkel **

 

Dean should feel bad about lying to Castiel. After everything Castiel’s done for him― promised not to tell his dad, allowed him to stay the night, and has been nothing but kind to him― the last thing he should do is is lie. It’s wrong.

He shouldn’t have said it was Sam who was fucked up enough to have anxiety. Sam has always been perfect. He’s never had any problems like that; he’s never had uncontrollable panics, or had days where the smallest thing could trigger an anxiety attack. And Dean shouldn’t have lied and made it seem like Sam did.

He stabs at his soufflé as the two drift back into a steady silence between them and Dean considers apologizing and admitting he was the one with problems, not his brother. But just as he opens his mouth, the memories come flooding back all at once; memories of coming home to an empty house, or waking up from a nightmare, and realizing he’s completely alone― his mother is gone, his father refuses to help, and Sammy is too young and innocent to understand what’s happening. 

Even when he isn’t alone, he still feels as though sooner or later, everyone will leave him. His dad will be so fed up with Dean’s failures, the way he doesn’t follow the rules like a good soldier ought to, he’ll just pick up and leave all together. And Sam, too― as soon as he’s old enough, he’ll be out of the house, leaving Dean behind in his rear-view mirror.

And it’s with these memories, and the threat of abandonment lingering in the air around him, that Dean remembers why he can’t let Castiel know of his failures; how he loses control and breaks down completely, how he lives in constant fear of being left behind. He’s just met Castiel, the last thing he should do is burden him with his fucked up issues.

He recites John’s list over in his mind for good measure, so he doesn’t forget the rules, so he doesn’t fuck up again.

  1. Real men fix things― they can fix anything from broken faucets to old cars.
  2. Real men know their alcohol and don’t drink shitty beer like Bud Light.
  3. Real men don’t take no for an answer.
  4. Real men don’t get emotionally attached; not to women, not to belongings, not to anything.
  5. Real men don’t cry.



The last part, he repeats over again, letting it ingrain itself into his memory.

_Real men don’t cry, real men don’t cry, real men don’t cry, real men don’t cry, real men_ ―

Castiel coughs quietly, bringing Dean back to reality before saying, “These are very good, Dean. Did you make it all from scratch?”

He blushes slightly at the compliment, mumbling, “Yeah, most of it, I guess. Except for the dough, I used your Pillsbury stuff for that. My little brother, Sam, is one of those kids that really likes pre-made shit you just heat up, but that stuff tastes nasty, so over the years, I’ve found ways to make ‘em taste better, like using them in recipes or adding spices so it doesn’t taste all processed like.”

“Do you always cook for your brother?”

“Yeah, I do everything for him. The little shit probably won’t know how to cook and take care of himself when he’s out of the house,” Dean chuckles.

“But what about your parents?” Castiel asks and Dean frowns, not liking where he’s going with this. “It seems like they should be the ones taking care of―”

“Listen, you don’t have to pretend to be interested and make conversation to be polite,” Dean says, clearing his half eaten soufflé from the counter and dumping the contents of the dish into the trashcan.

“My apologies if I overstepped my boundaries, Dean,” Castiel says.

He shrugs, “It’s fine; don’t worry about it. But I do have to get to work by nine, and if you were serious about driving me home, I’d appreciate it.”

Castiel nods and takes his empty ramekin to the sink before grabbing his keys and trench coat from the closet. “I can take you back now if you’d like.”

 * * *

With the motorcycle piled in the back of Castiel’s pickup, the two men slide in the front seat and pull out of the driveway, as the opening chords of _Scarborough Fair_ hum through the speakers.

“So, what’s a guy like you doing driving a pickup?” Dean asks after a few minutes of silence.

“What do you mean?”

“I just meant that you don’t really seem like the type to drive this kind of car. I mean, you live in this cute little cottage with a garden in the back for crying out loud. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘pickup driver’ to me” 

Castiel shrugs, “I wasn’t aware that cars ‘screamed’ anything about their owners, but I did get this car used for a good deal. And I use it mainly to transport plants and trees from the nursery downtown back to my house.”

“Are you kidding me? The car you drive says a lot about you. If you drive a Dodge Charger, it let’s everyone know you’re a major douche bag. If you drive a classic muscle car, everyone knows you have a keen eye for the classics and are not to be fucked around with.”

“Oh, I see. And what does your motorcycle say about you?”

Dean glances back at the piece of junk in the back, the thing that had gotten him into this whole mess, with its damaged engine and used parts. The lady who had sold it to him described it as a fixer-upper. “What do you think?”

Castiel shrugs, “Well, I’m not a car person, so I wouldn’t really know. But it looks like a good bike, like it was beautiful and shiny when it rode out of the factory for the first time. It looks a little rundown from being overworked over the past few years, but with a fix up and reconditions, it could be as good as new.”

“That is, if I ever get around to fixing it up again.”

“You’ll find time.”

They drift out of conversation again, only speaking in short sentences when Castiel asks him for directions and, soon enough, they pullin front of a small rambler off the side of a dirt road with blue paint peeling off the sides and a sheet of plywood covering a bashed in window. Home sweet home.

“Thanks, Castiel,” Dean says, sliding out of the car. “And you have my information, so you can just send me the bill or something.”

Castiel nods, and as Dean pulls the bike from the back and pushes it to the house, he still feels Castiel’s gaze on him. He leaves the bike leaning against the cement stairs and waves shortly before entering the house. 

Once Dean closes the door behind him, he hears the rumbling of Castiel’s car fading as he drives away. He sighs and makes his way into the kitchen to clean up the mess of dirty dishes and pans he was cleaning last night before the fight.

Oh, right. _The fight_. Dean almost forgot the reason he met Castiel in the first place. 

It’s so weird to think about. The fight, and everything that happened because of it, it all seems so far away. Like it happened days or even weeks ago, not just a couple hours. So many things happened within that short time and the memories already seem dried over and fading, rather than raw and fresh in his mind.

And Dean should probably be worrying about what he’ll say to his dad now that he’s home, or what he has to do around the house before going in for work, but instead, all he can think about is how strange the last few hours of his life have been. How every action, from getting into an argument with his dad to taking his broken down motorcycle for a ride and crashing it, has led to him meeting this strange man. And despite his quirks, despite his problems that only remind Dean of his own, Dean still finds himself thinking about Castiel. For some reason, he wants to know more about him, to learn everything about him. But after everything Dean’s done, after all he’s fucked up, it’d be too much to ask of Castiel and Dean would hate to be any more of a burden.

 


	7. Chapter 7

** "Fill This House" **

** Chapter Track: _I'll Drown_ -Sóley **

 

As Castiel pulls out of the dirt driveway to take the short drive back to his home, he wonders how strange it is that he could live not fifteen minutes away from someone for nearly five years, if not longer, and have never met them until now.

What’s even weirder is to imagine all the times he might have passed him at the grocery store or bumped into him at the post office. He might have looked at Dean, probably noticed his green eyes and his beat up leather jacket, but he’s never actually _seen_ him until now.

Soon enough, Castiel pulls into his own driveway, but rather than going straight into his house, he walks around to the back where the remains of his garden are. There’s a huge gap in the picket fence where Dean’s motorcycle crashed through, but he still enters through the small gate.

Once inside, he walks down the cobblestone pathway, past the shredded flowers and dug up plants with tire tracks running across them, until he reaches a small rocking chair and sits down.

When Castiel started this garden nearly five years ago, he bought this chair from the little old lady next door. It was in desperate need of repair so he sanded it down and gave it a repaint. And when it was as good as new, he set it in this specific spot so he could watch the way the flowers grow and how they dance in the wind. _It’s the perfect spot_ , Castiel thinks, because he can see all of his plants and the chair was right under the trellis which gave him just enough shade to cool down in the hot summer. 

Now, the trellis’ shade is almost too cold as he watches the way withered flower petals tumbled off their stems.

Castiel fingers the slip of paper Dean had written his information on before pulling it out and unfolding it. He looks at the numbers and letters on the page, but doesn’t really process them, and he glances back up to the destroyed garden.

He isn’t angry with Dean for what happened to his garden. Actually, from what Castiel remembers of last night, Dean seems just as upset about it, though probably not for the same reasons Castiel is. He kept begging Castiel not to tell his dad. He asked over and over again, only breathing when Castiel promised he wouldn’t. 

It’s probably a normal thing― kids not wanting to tell their parents of their misbehavior out of embarrassment or shame― but there was something different in the way Dean had begged Castiel not to tell. Fear, almost.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Castiel glances around his garden again, the memories coming back to him once more. They don’t seem as fresh and raw in his memory now, as if it had happened a couple nights ago rather than just last night, but Castiel suspects that’s a good thing. A sign that he’s coping.

The only problem now will be regrowing it. And determining how much Dean owes him. But how much does one charge another for five years of their life?

“Did you throw a wild party and not tell me?” A voice from behind him asks, causing Castiel to nearly jump out of his seat.

He turns, sighing deeply when he sees his brother leaning against the trellis licking a lollipop. “What are you doing here, Gabriel? You weren’t supposed to be back from Mexico for another week.”

“There’s only so many burritos a man can eat,” he shrugs before reaching out to pinch Castiel’s cheek.  “And I missed my little brother.”

Castiel’s suspicious frown doesn’t waver and once Gabriel realizes Castiel isn’t buying it, his expression changes to that of mock scandal. “What? You don’t believe your own brother cut his trip short because he missed you?”

He’s met with silence, and finally Gabriel sighs in defeat. “Okay, fine. Missouri next door called me. She said she was on her way to her son’s house last night when she heard you having a panic attack. She said she would have come over by herself to check on you but she had to take care of her grandbaby or something.”

Castiel sighs, making his way past his brother to the back door. Of course Gabriel cut his trip short to check on him. He should have known. It’s not that he isn’t thankful― on the contrary, he really appreciates all his brother has done for him― but just because Castiel gets panic attacks more than the average person should, doesn’t mean he’s a baby that needs to be checked up on every few hours. He doesn’t need to be coddled. He’s got through the past few panics without the help of his brother, or his neighbor, who often treats Castiel like another son. Of course, Dean was there both times, but Castiel doesn’t know him, Dean’s practically a stranger to him, so technically he was alone. Right?

He shrugs off the thought, heading into the kitchen to clean up, as his brother follows behind.

“I hope you’re not angry with me for coming back early.”

“I am not.”

“It’s just from the way Missouri described it, and the crime scene out back, it seems like your...fits...are getting worse.”

“Panic attacks,” Castiel corrects him, feeling the vague tingle of irritation underneath his skin. “And no, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Castiel, there are literally _tire tracks_ in your garden. Please tell me you didn’t drive through―”

“You think I’m crazy enough to drive through my own garden?” He asks, not meaning to raise his voice so loud, but he can’t help but feel offended by Gabriel’s words. He might get panic attacks, but he isn’t crazy. Why don’t people realize that? Why do people just assume because you have one disorder, that automatically means that you have all of them? “You really think that just because I had a ‘fit,’ as you so politely put it, I would get into my car and destroy the one thing I’ve cared about for the past five years?”

He stares at his brother in a frozen rage for a moment before breaking contact and sinking into the chair beside him. He breathes in and breathes out deeply before murmuring, “This guy― Dean― crashed his motorcycle through my garden, completely destroying it.” He doesn’t look up at his brother; he doesn’t want to see his face. “That’s why I was triggered.”

Gabriel sits down next to Castiel, twirling the half-sucked lollipop in between his index finger and thumb. “What an asshole,” he says finally and Castiel sighs yet again. Was that seriously all Gabe got out of that?

“Dean? No, Dean isn’t an asshole,” Castiel replies, not sure why he feels like he has to defend this stranger.

“Tell me he didn’t hit and run.”

“Of course not. He didn’t hit and run. He hit...and stayed over.”

“What? Did you fuck him or something?”

The look Castiel shoots his brother is one of complete scandal. “What? No! What kind of a person do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. You have been pretty lonely for a while, I wouldn’t blame you for fucking the guy that destroyed your precious garden. Is he hot?”

“That is not of import,” Castiel replies, his cheeks tinged slightly as he remembers Dean’s green eyes and the way he vaguely smelled of sage. Or maybe that was because he tumbled over some in his garden?

“So he is?”

“It was late at night and I wasn’t really looking―”

“You fucked the guy who destroyed your garden and you don’t even know what he looks like?”

“No! No. I did not fuck him. It was just late and his motorcycle was broken down, so I let him sleep on the couch. As far as his looks go― he’s fine.” Castiel says, letting out a breath after he’s finished. He glances over at his brother who is smiling and once Castiel realizes that was his plan all along― to tease him about something menial and irrelevant until he forgot his anxiety and stress― he rolls his eyes. The fucker.

“So, what’re you gonna make me for my welcome home dinner?” he asks, the smirk still plastered onto his face.

“I don’t really have much food, right now.” _Dean used most of it to make breakfast_ , he adds silently.

“Great, then we can go out to eat after I get settled in.”


	8. Chapter 8

** “Take Your Time” **

** Chapter Track: _Simple Man_ \- Lynyrd Skynyrd **

 

By the time the clock turns three-thirty, Dean’s barely awake with his hands deep in a Honda Pilot. His shift ended nearly a half an hour ago, but he decided to stay overtime to finish the car.

“Why don’t you clean up and go home, boy?” Bobby asks him from behind, making Dean jump. 

He shakes his head, hoping to clear his sleep-addled mind. “Nah, Bobby, I’m good. Almost done with this Honda anyway.”

“I don’t think so. Your shift is over and you look like you’ll fall asleep the minute I leave—”

“I wouldn’t!”

“All I’m saying is that you look exhausted, go home. Charlie or Benny can take over from here,”  Bobby orders, and with a slap on his back, he’s gone.

Dean shakes his head, wiping his hands on an old rag, but he can’t help but feel relieved that his working day is over, at least for a few hours until he has to wait tables at the diner.

After cleaning up a bit and grabbing his things from his locker, he leaves the garage to walk home, absentmindedly humming the tune of the Beatles’ _A Hard Day’s Night_ and strumming his fingers against his thighs to the beat as he walks.  As Dean rounds the corner of the road, walking up the dirt driveway, he notices the Impala isn’t in her usual spot, and he isn’t sure if he should sigh a breath of relief or of frustration. If John took the Impala somewhere, it means Dean won’t have to talk to him for a while, but the fact that John’s gone is never a good sign. When he’s gone it’s usually to gamble and drink and do God-knows-what, leaving Dean to do most of the work around the house and taking care of Sammy. It’s not like John does much at home anyway.

But now isn’t the time to dwell on how crappy Dean’s life is. He has other, bigger things to worry about than an absentee father. Things like figuring out how to work two jobs and manage to take care of his brother, things like finding the time to buy groceries and clean the house, and things like figuring out how to pay back Castiel after the damage he caused. Yes, finding a way to solve all of his problems and manage to keep his head above water are much more important than worrying about a dad who’s never home, and when he is, he causes more problems than when he’s away. And honestly, Dean can’t decide whether he likes it better when John is home or when he’s gone.

He opens the door, calling out Sam’s name to let him know he’s home and Sam murmurs a ‘hey, Dean’ in reply. Without kicking off his shoes, Dean makes his way through the living room and into the joined kitchen, ruffling Sam’s hair as he walks by.

“Dad left again,” Sam mumbles quietly.

Dean pulls out a pot from the cupboard, placing it on the stove, before lighting a match to start the flame underneath. “Yeah, I noticed. You know where he went this time?”

Sam shrugs, his eyes still glued to the textbook sitting in front of him. “I dunno. He took his duffle bag, so I’m guessing at least two weeks this time, but it’s hard to tell.”

He grunts in reply and focuses his attention on opening the can of tomato soup in his hands.  Neither boy says anything for a long moment, letting the silence become stagnant and heavy as it pools through their house, or whatever you’d call the shithole they live in.

“So, what’re you making for dinner?” Sam asks finally after a few minutes, as Dean sautes a bit of minced garlic in another pan. 

“I have to be at the Roadhouse by five, so I thought I’d heat up some tomato soup,” he replies, using a spatula to spoon the garlic into the pot of boiling tomato soup.

“Please tell me you’re not trying to ‘make it taste better’ again. It’s fine how it is.”

“No, this Campbell’s soup you insist on buying tastes like horse shit. How can you be content with eating it?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Sam mutters and Dean rolls his eyes as he sprinkles a bit of dried basil and pepper into the mix. 

It’s one thing Dean misses— having a well cooked meal that doesn’t taste like it was made in a factory. When Dean was a kid, they didn’t have a lot of money— hell, they _still_ don’t— but Mary would always make up for the shitty processed foods they had to buy by adding ingredients to them so they wouldn’t taste as bad. 

_‘With a little dried basil on your tomato soup or a hint of lemon juice on your frozen broccoli, it tricks your mind into thinking it’s home-cooked,’_ Mary would say with a laugh as she’d fix dinner and Dean, who’d be standing on his toes to peek over the almost-too-tall counter, would watch her work in astonishment. At the time he thought it was magic.

But after Mary died sixteen-some years ago, the processed foods bought in boxes and cans became just that; processed and lifeless. They didn’t have the same taste as Mary’s food and Dean stopped getting that warm feeling in his stomach when he ate it. And the food stopped having that certain magic to it because the people who made it stopped caring. John’s never home anymore to make the food, Sam’s too young to remember anything but the tasteless processed food, and Dean— Dean is just stuck with the memories.

He sighs softly, ladling the soup into two bowls he hopes are clean and sets one bowl in front of Sam who’s sitting on the living room floor studying. Dean plops in one of their old recliners, watching the television flicker from the corner of his eye. He isn’t hungry anymore, but he forces himself to slurp at his soup anyway because it’s going to be a long night at the diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**  
> [Dean's Delicious Tomato Soup](http://www.thekitchn.com/lunch-in-a-hurry-10-ways-to-dress-up-canned-soup-167385) (aka How To Dress Up Your Canned Tomato Soup Like a Pro)


	9. Chapter 9

** “We're Not Done Are We” **

** Chapter Track: _Find a Way_ \- Safetysuit **

  

 

Apparently Gabriel’s idea of getting settled in means taking a nap until noon then soaking in the bathtub for a couple hours after, so Castiel decides to pass the time by writing. Or at least sitting at his desk and _thinking_ about writing.

As much as he hates to admit, he hasn’t been able to write much recently; not because of his panic attacks or anything, but simply because he _can’t_. Every time he sits at his desk with his fingers on the keyboard, nothing comes out. No matter how hard he tries to type a single word, much less a single sentence, he finds that he can’t. Nothing comes to mind, and when he does force the words out, they sound flat and stilted. They don’t flow like they used to; they haven’t for weeks.

It’s probably one of the more frustrating feelings Castiel’s experienced— writer’s block. It’s like a strange, persistent itch at the back of his mind, constantly reminding him that he needs to write, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to scratch the itch.

And the longer Castiel goes without writing, the more his anxiety and stress build. It’s hard to explain thoroughly, but to Castiel, writing is very much like growing his garden. They both act as his survival mechanisms; the way he copes with the disorder of his mind and the world around him. Gardening gives him a look on the outside world, finding ways to communicate with nature and the earth, while writing helps him make sense of the storm in his mind.

But now, with his garden in shambles and his writing career practically nonexistent for the foreseeable future, Castiel is stuck with absolutely nothing. 

He takes a deep breath, breathing in and out slowly, before grabbing the container of emergency pills Doctor Fitzgerald gave him and dry swallowing a couple, hoping that might help calm his nerves a bit.

“Writing again, Cassie?” Gabe asks, strolling into Castiel’s office in a fuzzy, pink robe.

Castiel grimaces at the nickname, but decides to ignore it. Even if he tells Gabe that he’s not a chubby five year old who only answers to the nickname ‘Cassie,’ his brother will never stop teasing him about it. 

“Hardly,” he admits. “Haven’t written anything since _Plight of Righteous Men_ was published.”

“Seriously? That came out almost a year ago, dude.”

Castiel nods as the feeling of nausea settles uneasily in his stomach. “I know. And I have to send a new manuscript to Meg by the end of August.”

“Shit, little bro. And you haven’t written anything?”

_‘Shit, man’ is right_ , Castiel thinks with an almost melodramatic shake of his head. With the way his writer’s block is going, or rather _not_ going, and the way his anxiety is seeming to snuff any flame of an idea Castiel tries to conjure up, the light at the end of his tunnel is becoming dimmer and dimmer by the second. But he’s already signed the contract to write another novel after the release of _Plight of Righteous Men_ , and if he can’t submit a new manuscript to his editor, Meg, by the end August, Garrison Publishing will demand the return of his advance.

There’s no way around it; Castiel has to find a way to crank out a somewhat well-written novel in the next three months, but it seems almost an impossible task and every time Castiel even tries to _think_ about what he’s going to write, he just feels sick to his stomach.

With a slap on his back, jolting Castiel from his self-pitying thoughts, Gabriel smiles and says, “Well, let’s take a break from that and go out to eat.”

 * * *

Despite the fact that it’s only four-thirty in the afternoon, the Roadhouse is already packed with people and much to Castiel’s distaste, they’re placed directly in the center of the chaos.

“We should have asked for better seats,” Castiel grumbles as their waitress, Jo, leaves to get their drinks.

“You’re the one who wanted to come here, kiddo.”

Castiel has to lean in just to hear his brother over the sound of other patron’s conversations and the music blaring from the speakers above their heads. After he’s finally able to understand what his brother just said, he grimaces. “Yeah. Well, I didn’t know it’d be this loud and crowded.”

The brothers fall silent as the loud noises of the bar suck up any urge to converse more, and finally, Castiel can’t take it anymore. The obnoxious laughter from the table beside them and the blaring music pound against his skull, and he stands so quickly his head becomes light and airy.

“Where you going, Cassie?” Gabe asks, glancing up from his phone.

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, letting the ache in his skull subside a moment before replying. “Forgot my coat in the car and it’s getting kind of cold under that fan,” he says, but really he just needs some air.

He feels his brother’s eyes on him, no doubt watching him with concern, as he snakes his way through the tables toward the front of the diner. He pushes the front doors open with ease, but the bright light, a vibrant contrast to the darkened diner, momentarily blinds him and he nearly stumbles over something as he tries to walk to his car.

“Hey! Watch yourself, would ya?” a gruff voice barks, causing Castiel to turn around where the voice came from. As the stars dancing before his eyes fade and he regains his vision once again, he finds himself staring into bright green eyes.

“Dean?” he asks dumbly. “What are you doing here?”

After Dean realizes who he just snapped at, his expression changes from annoyed to almost apologetic. “Oh, hey, Cas. Sorry, I’m just hanging out front, before I have to work.” 

Castiel nods, noticing how Dean called him ‘Cas.’ It’s a nickname, but definitely not as bad as ‘Cassie,’ and he decides he doesn’t mind it.

He watches Dean drop his gaze as he pulls a lighter and a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and fishes out a cigarette. “Still got thirty minutes before I gotta go in,” he mumbles, sticking a cigarette between his lips before holding the pack out to Castiel. “Want one?”

Without much thought, Castiel plucks a cigarette from the pack and sits beside his companion on the curb. After he slots the cigarette in between his lips, Dean leans in to hold the flame to the cigarette and they gaze steadily, if not a bit awkwardly, at one another in return. Dean isn’t so close that he’s in Castiel’s personal space and it’s only a moment before he pulls away, releasing the button on the lighter to shut off the flame, but Castiel can’t help but hold his breath as long as Dean is close.

Once the tip begins to glow a faint orange, Dean pulls away to light his own and distracted by the way Dean’s fingers cup around the cigarette to prevent the flame from going out, Castiel forgets and breathes in, inhaling the smoke which rushes down his throat, swarming his lungs.

Castiel coughs, gasping for air, and through his watery eyes, he sees Dean watching him with an almost humorous glint in his eyes. “First time?” he smirks. In between short sputters, Castiel manages a nod and Dean chuckles, patting his shoulder, “That’s alright; it happens to the best of us.”

After a few more gasps for breath, his lungs clear and as he regains his composure, being able to breathe easier, he spares another side glance at Dean who is holding his own cigarette between two fingers. As if sensing Castiel staring, he looks up to meet his gaze. Dean opens his mouth to say something but the opening chords of _Back in Black_ cut him off.

“Heya, Sammy,” he says after he’s fished his phone from his pocket and placed it against his ear. Castiel can’t hear exactly what the person on the other end is saying, just the low murmur, and Dean hums before glancing nervously at Castiel, so he quickly looks away to give him the illusion of privacy. “Yeah, yeah. I know, but I don’t get my next paycheck for another week, and then I gotta pay someone back, so you think you could hold on a bit longer?”

Castiel can barely hear the person on the other line groan “Deaaan” before mumbling something else. But all questions of what the person asked vanish as Dean reddens quickly. “No, I am not into drugs, Sam. And the mafia isn’t after me either. Goddammit. Don’t worry about it, okay? Just go back to doing whatever it is nerdy high schoolers do” he says, before snapping his phone shut and squeezing it in his fist until the skin over his knuckles turns white.

It seems like such a private moment, watching a near-stranger nearly break down, trying to keep it all together. Dean seems so vulnerable and Castiel can’t help but feel like he’s intruding as he watches Dean’s emotions unfold before him. Part of him wants to ask if Dean’s alright, but he feels like Dean isn’t the kind of person who’d appreciate that, and Castiel worries that if he does ask, it’d just bring attention to himself and remind Dean he’s not alone in his moment of vulnerability.

But the slam of a door seems to jolt Dean out of his thoughts and the moment he looks up again, his green eyes are hardened over, all traces of anxiety and emotion gone.

“Cassie, where have you been? It does not take someone ten minutes to get a coat.”

Castiel glances up just in time to see his brother approaching him. “Oh. Sorry, Gabe. I just bumped into a...friend and we got to talking,” he replies as Gabriel eyes the cigarette in between his fingers and Dean sitting beside him.

Gabriel raises a brow in suspicion. “Since when do you have friends? You hardly ever leave your house.”

Dean clear his throat awkwardly.

“Well, maybe friend isn’t the...correct term,” Castiel amends though it comes out as more of a question. “This is Dean.”

As soon as the name leaves Castiel’s lips, Gabe’s eyes widen in recognition and a mocking smile cracks across his face. “So this is _the_ Dean? The Dean that destroyed your garden, and spent the night, and is the reason why you don’t have any food in your fridge? And now, you’re sitting here smoking with him?” He manages in between gasps of laughter. “There’s no way you didn’t sleep with him.”

Faces burning bright red, Dean and Castiel spare a nervous glance at one another before hurriedly looking anywhere else, and Dean’s voice cracks slightly when he asks, “What?”

But still embracing his role as the mocking old brother, Gabriel ignores Dean and Castiel’s obvious discomfort and continues. “Seriously, Cassie. I mean, you said he was fine, but you failed to mention that he’s a fucking Adonis in disguise.” 

“I’m so sorry, Dean. My brother has no manners,” Castiel mutters without glancing at Dean as his brother continues nearly keeling over in laughter.

Finally, after an almost painful couple minutes pass, Gabriel calms down, taking a deep breath, before asking, “So aside from the fact that you’re gorgeous, Dean, what are you going to do to repay my brother?”

A confused look flits across Dean’s face at the sudden change in tone. “I, uh. Castiel was going to send me a bill for the damages so I know how much I owe him.”

Gabriel nods, all hints of teasing replaced by grim suspicion. “And how do I know you’re planning on paying him back? Listen here, buddy. If you’re planning on screwing him over—”

“Gabe—” Castiel warns.

“I won’t screw him over. I swear I’ll pay him back, even if I have to work myself to death to—”

“No, no,” Gabriel scoffs. Something in Castiel’s stomach drops but he can’t tell if it’s embarrassment from his over-protective older brother or just the general nervous tingle of his anxiety increasing. “I don’t think you understand. That garden was more than just a plot of dirt and flowers, it was my brother’s _life_ for the past five years. Something that important, that precious, you can’t just put a price on it and move on.”

Something in Dean’s stiff posture breaks and he looks away guiltily under Gabriel’s hardened gaze. Castiel looks between the two men, trying to figure out what is going on. 

“Yeah? Then what do you suggest I do?” Dean asks, his voice quiet and cracked. “It’s not like I can go back in time and un-destroy Castiel’s garden.”

“I suggest that instead of paying Cas back, you help him regrow it. You made a mess, Dean, clean it up.”

“Okay,” he murmurs after a moment of silence. “I can help you regrow your garden, Cas. If you want, of course.”

Dean looks so dejected, like a reprimanded child, and Castiel can’t stop himself from reaching out and touching his shoulder. “You, uh— you don’t have to feel obligated to help me, Dean.”

He watches Dean glance quickly from Gabriel’s pointed stare that clearly says otherwise before locking eyes with him. “No, it’s okay, Cas,” he says. “I destroyed your garden. The least I can do would be to help you regrow it.”

 * * *

After his conversation with the Miltons, Dean drifts through the rest of his shift in a daze. It’s almost like he’s gone on auto-pilot, taking orders and bringing out steaming plates of food to his customers, while his mind is completely elsewhere, replaying every event, every conversation and action that has brought him up to this point. 

_The fight. The crash. The panic. Their conversation. And finally, their agreement._

The memories fill and consume his thoughts, flitting around without rest, and much to his chagrin, they also bring a variety of emotion with them, often conflicting with each other as they pass through his mind.

On one hand, he’s relieved— thrilled, even—that he’s helping Castiel regrow his garden instead of paying him back. The fact that Castiel isn’t charging him and wants to see his ugly face once a week is like an answer to prayers— not that Dean was praying any. But from what Sam had said on the phone and the fact that Dad probably isn’t coming for a few days, it’s blatantly and embarrassingly obvious they’re in deep financial trouble. Their debts and bills aren’t going to pay themselves, so if Dean can save a couple hundred bucks, he’s more than happy to oblige. 

But even so, it’s still daunting to think that for the next few months, or until this garden is back to the way it was, he’ll have to take the little free time he has to go over to Castiel’s house and rebuild his garden. And on top of that, he barely knows the guy, much less how to even _begin_ regrowing the garden for him.

Dean sighs, glancing at the Milton brothers from the corner of his eye, who are seated in the center of the room. They’re leaning in, bowing their heads slightly, as if they’re trying to have a deep conversation in the midst of the chaos the loud music and nearby conversations brings in. At one point, Castiel glances nervously at him before looking away almost immediately once he realizes Dean is watching them.

They’re talking about him, Dean realizes. Only he can’t decide what about.

“Excuse me, did you hear me? I asked for a beer,” a red-faced customer asks and Dean quickly shakes his head in attempt to rid himself of thoughts of the Miltons.

“I’m sorry about that, sir. I’ll bring your beer right out,” Dean says, forcing a smile and hurries away to get back to work.

 * * *

“Are you serious, Gabriel?” Castiel nearly hisses once they’ve returned to their seats. “That was so uncalled for. Dean and I had an arrangement— I was to send him the bill, so he could pay me back— and now you’ve completely ruined it. And in the most embarrassing way possible!”

“Calm down, Cassie. Did you ever think this social interaction might be good for you?”

“I don’t need social interaction. I just need to get my garden taken care of as soon as possible,” he grumbles.

“And having an extra hand around to help will make it grow all the more faster. Don’t be so stubborn, Cas. Even you know that,” Gabriel replies, reaching for his chocolate milkshake. “And besides, judging from the look on Ken-Doll’s face, it’d seem like he agrees.”

He can’t help but furrow his brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I mean, after I gave him the ol’ one-two, he seemed anxious— which, I don’t blame him; I’m a pretty intimidating person— but underneath that, he also seemed kinda relieved, I guess.”

Castiel nods slowly, letting his brother’s words sink in. 

He doesn’t like visitors or strangers that much, but then again, given the circumstances, Dean is probably way past the label of just ‘stranger,’ and from Gabriel had said about Dean seeming relieved at their new arrangement, maybe this idea to regrow the garden together isn’t a bad decision after all. 


	10. Chapter 10

** “‘Cause I Believe in You” **

** Chapter Track: _My Darling Grace_ \- Berlinist **

 

Not twenty-four hours later does Dean Winchester find himself standing at the front door of Castiel’s house, tapping his foot nervously against the cobblestone porch with his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. In reality, it’s too late in spring to be wearing layers, but he couldn’t help but put on the hand-me-down jacket as he was getting ready this morning. In some ways, the leather jacket is like his own personal armor— it’s what makes him feel safe and less anxious at times like these. It helps him know who he is and remember that men in leather jackets and motorcycles don’t get anxious and they sure as hell don’t cry. 

Sometimes he forgets that, but things like his father’s list and this beat up leather jacket help him remember, help put him back in his place.

With a shallow sigh, he reaches out, letting his fingers hover in front of the doorbell, but can’t will himself to press it just yet. 

Ever since last night, hell, ever since he crashed through the garden and met Cas even, his mind has been a whirling mess full of conflicting emotions— some of which he hasn’t even allowed himself to feel in years. And this sudden burst of emotion, flooding his thoughts and burning up his energy, is overwhelming to say the least. He’s only known Castiel for a little over twenty-four hours and he’s already mentally exhausted. And he can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

But before he can come to a decision on his feelings on the matter, the door flies open to reveal Gabriel who is standing before him wearing only a robe and a pair of Family Guy boxers. 

“It’s about time you showed up,” Gabriel greets, and though his tone is more playful than mistrusting, Dean is still on his toes around him. From the way Gabriel acted last night, shifting emotions with the blink of an eye, Dean can’t really be too sure when he’ll switch back to his suspicious-of-Dean-who’s-gonna-screw-my-brother-over mode. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says, uncertainly, watching as Gabriel turns and walks deeper into the house.

“Cassie’s this way,” Gabriel calls behind his shoulder. “And don’t forget to close the door behind you.”

Nodding dumbly, Dean steps into the house and closes the door. He follows Gabriel into the kitchen where Castiel is standing at the island stove, cracking an egg into the steaming pan.

“Good morning, Dean,” he says, glancing up. “Would you like some sunshine toast? I thought I’d cook some breakfast before we begin.”

Dean smiles softly, gazing at the toast sizzling in a small puddle of butter in the pan. A circular chunk is cut out of its center, replaced by a frying egg. It’s been years since he’s had one of those for breakfast, but he can still remember his mom sliding a plate of sunshine toast in front of him, kissing his head and murmuring, _‘sunshine toast for my little ray of sunshine.’_ And Dean would scrunch his nose and groan an embarrassed _‘mooooom.’_

“Dean?” Castiel asks.

“What? Oh, sorry-uh, no. No, thanks. I already ate,” he replies, but Castiel must have seen him staring longingly at the toast because once it’s finished cooking, he slides the plate over to Dean anyway.

“Take it; we have a long day ahead of us.”

Dean nods, taking the plate from Castiel and setting it on the dining table. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom, if that’s alright with you,” he says and after Castiel nods his consent, he makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t actually have to use it or anything, but rather he just feels like he needs some time to wrap his mind around this whole thing. 

He’s destroyed something that Castiel has deeply cared about for the past five years. Like Gabriel had said, it was so much more than a garden, it was Castiel’s life.

So, what Dean can’t understand is if he is the reason for Castiel’s breakdown and the destroyer of priceless possessions, then why are the Miltons being so nice to him? Shouldn’t they be put off by just his presence instead of offering him breakfast and warm smiles? They should be treating him like a criminal, like a reckless child, not as an old friend. 

It just doesn’t make sense.

Sighing, he runs his hands under the cool water running from the sink and splashes his face. Maybe he should just be thankful they’re so welcoming instead of spending his time worrying about how awkward the whole exchange could be if they loathed one another.

Although the bathroom door is closed, the murmurs of voices in the kitchen still drift through the cracks, and Dean finds himself slowly turning off the faucet to hear more clearly. He usually doesn’t eavesdrop, never really caring that much to listen to other peoples’ conversations, but in this case, he can’t help but feel curious as to what the brothers are talking about.

“Don’t worry, Cassie. You’re doing great,”he hears Gabriel say.

“I offered him breakfast,” Castiel replies, the slightest hint of pride in his voice, and Dean furrows his brow in confusion. What does offering him breakfast have anything to do with this?

“I know. See, now is it really that difficult to talk to strangers?”

“Well, it’s usually just large groups and strangers that I get anxious around. And after what happened between us, I’d hardly consider Dean a stranger, I suppose.”

He hears Gabriel hum quietly. “So you’re warming up to him?”

“I suppose. He seems like a nice kid.”

There’s a heavy pause before Castiel grumbles, “what?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m glad that you feel comfortable around him. It’s just— he destroyed your garden, Cassie—”

_There it is_ , Dean thinks to himself, scoffing almost bitterly. _The mistrust, the suspicion._

“So?”

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Well, he’s here, isn’t he? Dean didn’t have to show up and he did. That seems pretty trustworthy to me.”

“Yeah, but he’s only here to clean up his mess. Because I had to make him. But why was he even driving that time of night? Why did he even crash? He could have been drinking, he could have been—”

“He wasn’t! Or at least, I don’t think he was.”

“But my point is, he could have. You don’t know for sure. You hardly know the guy,” Gabriel says. “All I’m saying is that I’m glad he showed up and I’m glad you aren’t anxious around him, but don’t get too attached; the last thing I want is to see you get screwed over by some _kid_ with a broken motorcycle.”

Discomfort pools in Dean’s stomach as he hears the words and he huffs, turning away from the door to dry off his hands. In reality, he knows he shouldn’t feel offended. The Miltons don’t know him, they have every right to be suspicious of him and his motives. But even though he made a mistake, Dean always cleans up his messes and he sure as hell doesn’t screw people over, so hopefully by working extra hard to clean up Castiel’s garden he can prove to the Miltons that he’s more than just some kid with a broken bike.

Once his hands are dry enough, he slips out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, making just enough noise to let the brothers know he’s out of the bathroom and within earshot.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” he asks, sitting down at the table with Gabriel and Castiel. 

Castiel glances through the window to his garden before looking back at Dean. “I was thinking we could clean up a little. Pick up the debris and dig up the plants that we can’t save so we can make room for new plants.”

“Wait, wait. What do you mean ‘we’?” Gabriel asks, stuffing a bite of the sunshine toast into his mouth. “Isn’t this supposed to be Dean’s job?”

“Well, yes, but Dean doesn’t know how to tend to garden. Or at least I don’t think he does,” Castiel replies, glancing at Dean who shakes his head. The closest he’s ever gotten to plants were the dandelion bouquets he used to make for his mom when he was four. “See? So, Dean will need my help to tell him where and how he should do things.”

“Yeah? And what about me?”

“You? You could try apologizing to Kali, so you don’t have to stay here anymore,” Castiel replies with the slightest hint of a proud smirk on his lips as Dean chokes out a laugh, stopping quickly under Gabriel’s unimpressed stare.

“Don’t bring my love life into this,” he grumbles. 

Ignoring his brother, Castiel turns back to Dean. “After we finish breakfast, we can begin,” he smiles.

 * * *

Fifteen minutes later, both men stand in the center of the garden, looking around the mess of tire treads and shredded plants. Dean notices castiel biting his lip worriedly, before glancing up and smiling softly at him, no doubt an attempt to make Dean feel less guilty for this whole mess.

“We probably won’t get much gardening done today, but I thought I’d show you around the garden so when we do begin, you’ll know where everything is.”

Dean nods and follows Castiel around as he shows him different parts of his garden.

“The plants closer to the house should be fine and we won’t have to do much work on them because you, er, your motorcycle didn’t damage them,” Castiel says before pointing at the farthermost bed near the back of the garden. “Those, however, are past the point of saving and will need to be dug up completely so we can restore the soil and make room for new plants. We’ll probably do that today actually—” he trails off as he eyes Dean up and down carefully.

Dean can’t help but stiffen under his scrutinizing gaze, wondering why Castiel is looking him over right now. And couldn’t he have been more subtle about it, at least?

But his confusion at the sudden ogling clears up a few moments later when Castiel finally purses his lips and looks back up at Dean. “You might have to change though, or at least take off the jacket. It’ll get pretty hot during the day, so when you come over, make sure you’re wearing light clothing that you don’t mind getting dirty,” he says, lowering his eyes to the ground thoughtfully. “Well, I guess, if you wanted, you could always borrow one of my gardening shirts for the day, that way you don’t—”

“That’s alright, I don’t mind getting these clothes dirty,” Dean replies quickly, a soft blush nearly tinging his cheeks, yet he tells himself it’s probably just the morning sun heating his cheeks.

Nodding, Castiel strokes the stubble of his jaw as he eyes Dean’s jeans once again. “Alright, if you say so. Though, it’d probably be best to wear looser clothing next time; the jeans should be fine, but it’d probably be best to wear loose pants or at least khaki shorts for more flexibility and convenience,” he murmurs thoughtfully and Dean can’t help but smile slightly at the focused furrow of his brow. It’s almost cute how serious he is about gardening. 

But Dean quickly stops that train of thought. After all he’s done, getting into a fight with his father over trivial things and destroying Castiel’s garden, the last thing he should be doing is thinking that Cas is _cute_.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he manages, hoping his voice sounds somewhat normal.

Castiel hums in return before turning and walking down the cobblestone pathway, signaling for Dean to follow. They pass a trellis with flowers vining up the sides and an old rocking chair resting in it’s shade underneath, and Castiel mentions that he built the trellis himself, but the chair was given to him by his neighbor, Missouri.

“Wait, you built this?” Dean reiterates, gazing at the wooden trellis in awe. He isn’t just being polite either, he’s actually fascinated by the fact that Castiel can build things like that, and Dean remembers a time when he used to want to build things, to take different pieces and find ways to make them fit and work together. And in some ways, he finds himself a bit jealous of Castiel, that he can do things like woodworking and gardening without anyone to tell him otherwise. If his father knew, there’d be no way Dean would even be able to help Castiel with his garden, much less create and build one himself. 

Unaware of Dean’s bitter inner monologue, Castiel smiles, “Yeah, I actually built most of my furniture inside the house as well. Most of my woodworking equipment is in the garage, though.”

“That’s cool, man,” Dean replies and before he can stop himself, he adds, “I used to want to learn how to do carpentry and woodworking, myself.”

“You know, I was just going to repair the fence myself. But if you wanted to, you could repair it. It’d be a good first-step into woodworking,” Castiel offers and Dean nods, unable to speak because his mind is once again a swirling mess of thoughts.

Castiel smiles softly once again, murmuring an, ‘okay, great,’ and continues down the path around the side of the house to show Dean where the shed and compost bin is. Even from a fair distance, the pungent smell of rotting fruit and egg shells drifts over, curdling in his nostrils and it takes every bit of Dean’s self-control to stay polite and not scrunch his nose at the smell.

Thankfully, they only stay at the side of the house long enough for Castiel to show Dean the inside of the shed where all the tools are and to ask if Dean owns a pair of gardening gloves, to which Dean shakes his head ‘no.’ 

Castiel nods in response, though from the afar look in his eye, his mind seems to be just as muddled as Dean’s, as if there are a thousand things racing through his mind at once. And Dean finds that he appreciates that quality in Castiel— he understands what it’s like to have a mind he can never seem to shut down. There’s a constant mess of thoughts and emotions running through Dean, pulsing through his mind and body, that renders him exhausted during the day. 

He understands how draining it can be. Yet being able to see the flurry of thoughts and feelings flow through another person, Dean realizes that the outsider’s perspective is more interesting than draining because he’s able to see the way Castiel reacts to each piece of information running through him, working like gears in an open machine. He’s watching the emotions unfold rather than feeling them himself, and it’s an interesting perspective considering he’s usually on the retrieving end. And Dean wonders if this is what people see when they look at him— not just himself, but also the world of emotion igniting itself in his mind.

But Castiel clears his throat, decimating the flurry of emotion in his eyes, and the moment has disappeared along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**   
>  [Sunshine Toast](http://www.buttered-up.com/2011/01/sunshine-toast-because-theres-sun.html)


	11. Chapter 11

**“Hands Pulled Me From the Earth”**

**Chapter Track: _Like Real People Do_ \- Hozier**

 

Gardening with Dean is much less stressful than Castiel had thought it would be. Just in the couple hours they’ve been working together in the garden, digging up dead plants to replenish the soil in the cool morning air, Castiel’s nervousness has faltered quite a bit, leaving a vague sense of calm and relief in its place. And Castiel can’t decide if it’s due to him being back in the dirt with the flowers and bees or if it’s Dean’s company, though it’s not too difficult to assume that a significant part is Dean helping him.

Castiel still doesn’t know much about the guy, only that Dean works two jobs and has a little brother whom he’s fiercely protective over, and like Gabe had said, he’s still practically a stranger to them. But from what he has learned from their time together, Castiel believes Dean can be trusted.

There’s just something in the way Dean works— in the way he acts in the garden and around Castiel— that reflects his character like none other. He takes to the tools like they’re a third hand, and he’s mindful in the questions he asks, and the more Castiel watches Dean from the corner of his eye, the more he sees that particular something that proves Dean’s honesty. He sees it in the way Dean digs his hands into the dirt, wearing the gloves Castiel eventually insisted he borrow, and he sees it in the way Dean moves through the garden, stepping through the beds and handling plants, even the dead ones, as though any false move will shatter the garden all over again.

And it doesn’t take someone who makes a living off of observation and expression to understand what Dean’s actions signify. The guilt, the tentative determination to fix his mistakes, overtakes his whole body, from his actions to his mannerisms, and Castiel finds it hard to believe that anyone who harbors that intense of emotion could ever intentionally betray someone’s trust like that.

Gabriel may think his immediate trust of Dean is unfounded, but Castiel feels connected to Dean in a way he hasn’t felt connected to another human being in a long time— as if they’re kindred souls bound together through intense emotions storming inside them— and that must count for something, right?

 * * *

They work until noon, when the sun has completely risen, burning at full capacity above their heads and they’re covered in not only dirt from the garden, but sticky sweat that gathers at their necks and backsides. 

By then, the majority of the back flowerbeds have been uprooted and covered with a new layer of fresh compost. Castiel had been careful to instruct Dean that while they were taking out dead plants and their roots, they wouldn’t actually overturn the plot itself to not damage the ecosystems inside the soil. So once the plants past the point of saving had been uprooted entirely, they spread a couple inches of compost atop the already set soil.

Once they finish adding the compost to the beds, Castiel breathes in, letting the cool, sweet smell of plants and fresh soil clear his mind. It’s amazing how just being outside in the open air can have such a soothing effect on the mind and body. Just by breathing in its oxygen, any lingering anxiety Castiel has seems to vanish almost completely, and he finds that it’s what he loves most about being outdoors in his garden, surrounded by calm green and brown colors.

Still humming in that relaxed daze, Castiel uses a gloved hand to wipe at the sweat trickling down his forehead, before turning to the man beside him. “Should we take a break for lunch?,” he asks Dean, who lets out a low chuckle as he glances up at Cas. “What?”

“Nothing, you just got a smear of dirt on your face, is all,” Dean says, still grinning, and Castiel can’t help but blush slightly at the comment. This isn’t the first time he’s gotten dirt on his face and body before— any outdoor work will involve getting dirty to some extent— but he’s never felt this self-conscious about it before. Then again, he’s never had a companion to help with his gardening and yard work before either. 

Castiel uses his arm rather than the back of his hand to wipe at the smudge and sighs when he only feels it smear across his forehead even more. Dean laughs again, patting Castiel’s shoulder fondly. 

“Lunch sounds great, Cas.”

The two men stand and make their way down the cobblestone pathway to the backdoor, toeing out of their dirty shoes before entering the house. Inside, Castiel hands Dean a towel to wipe off some of the dirt he’s accumulated on his clothes and limbs, and they take turns washing their hands. They’re a bit cleaner after the quick clean up, though dirt still hides under their fingernails and the grimy dirt residue lingers on their skin, but it’s better than nothing and they find themselves back in the kitchen soon enough.

Dean waits patiently at the island while Castiel scours the fridge in search of something edible, but the fridge is just as bare as it was yesterday. After a moment of pushing aside half empty containers, he finds a small jar almost waiting for him on the shelf. 

“How do feel about pesto?” he asks over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Pesto,” Castiel reiterates. “You know, like pesto pasta?”

Dean snorts. “You mean like the kind that rich couples on dates get at Italian restaurants?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Never had it before to be honest,” Dean admits.

He turns to face Dean, holding the jar of homemade pesto sauce in his hand. “Want to try something new, then?”

* * * 

Ten minutes and a boiling pot of pasta later, both men sit across each other at the island with bowls of angel hair and pesto sauce. Castiel twirls the noodles onto his own fork, but watches Dean as the man eyes his bowl in hesitance.

“Something wrong, Dean?” he asks, his forking stilling between his fingers.

Dean glances up at Castiel. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just…” he trails off for a moment before a quick smile breaks over his face. “It looks like green baby food. Are you sure this is edible?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Dean,” Castiel replies and slurps the noodles off his fork in the most polite way possible. But angel hair isn’t the most refined of food and the noodles flop and slide against his chin, leaving a trail of green behind. 

Dean just watches him with a smirk before looking down and twirling noodles on his own fork. “Okay, but if I die from this, I’m blaming you,” he says, bringing the noodles up to his lips cautiously and slides it into his mouth.

“Well?”

Castiel watches Dean for a moment as he chews, letting the oil, basil, and parmesan cheese from the sauce mingle with the noodles in his mouth. And a smile spreads across his lips when Dean grunts in resignation. “I guess it’s not _horrible_ for rabbit food.”

“I told you.”

Dean shovels in another bite, mumbling ‘yeah, yeah,’ in between mouthfuls.

They eat quietly for a while, with only the sound of slurping noodle and forks against glass bowls between them, and finally Dean breaks the silence.

“So, what are we gonna do next today?”

Castiel looks up, glancing out the large windows into the garden. Before they started uprooting plants and composting, they cleaned up a lot of the mess; raking up strewn plant parts and tossing debris until the beds and pathway were spotless. And while most of the mess is cleaned up now, the garden still looks bare and depressing. The majority of the back beds have been cleared of beautiful, blooming plants and in their place is a large, looming gap.

While the plot of barren soil in his garden is dismal to say the least, Castiel can’t help but feel relieved as he looks at it. Just this morning, the garden was a disaster with tire treads and debris scattered around, but now that everything is straightened up, the scene looks more hopeful. The gap, as barren as it looks now, is just waiting for flowers to fill up with life and color.

“Well, we did a lot today,” Castiel says, resting his fork in the empty bowl. “I think we could call it a day.”

Dean seems surprised by this. “What, really? I thought we’d plant flowers today or something.”

“Well, it’d be wise to plant flowers in the morning, which we already spent cleaning up and composting,” Castiel hums. “So we’ll just save buying the flowers and planting for next week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**            **Cas' Gardening Tips**  
> [Pesto Pasta Sauce Recipe](http://www.wholefoodsmarket.com/recipe/learn-cook-simple-pesto)                        [Composting & Replenishing Soil](http://life.gaiam.com/article/restoring-your-soil)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing last week. Some family stuff came up and I wasn't able to post when I usually do.  
> Anyhow, here's the next chapter :)

**“From Time to Time You Sink”**

**Chapter Track: _La Noyee_ \- Serge Gainsbourg**

 

Leaving is just as awkward as Dean thought it would be. After they finish their meals and leave the empty bowls in the sink, they dance awkwardly around each other, unsure what to do next. Castiel had said they were done for the day, so there’s really nothing left for Dean to do here, but at the same time, he worries that leaving too early might show he’s not dedicated to helping Cas. After everything Dean’s done and what Gabriel said this morning, the last thing Dean wants is for Cas to think him untrustworthy. Then again, he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome either and make Castiel feel uncomfortable.

Dean sighs. Helping some nerdy guy regrow his garden should not be this difficult.

“So,” he begins, trailing off for a moment before finding his words. “I guess I’ll get going then. Unless there’s anything else you need me to do.”

Castiel shakes his head, “No, thank you, Dean. You did more than enough today and I appreciate you coming.”

“Okay, great...I guess I’ll get my shoes then,” Dean decides out loud and heads to the back door. Not wanting to get Castiel’s house dirty, he carries his shoes to the front foyer with Castiel trailing at a safe distance behind, and leans down by the front door to put them on. 

“Same time next week then?”

“Yes, that will be fine,” Castiel nods, pursing his lips in thought.

He murmurs an ‘awesome’ in reply and wipes his dirty hands on his jeans before offering Castiel his hand. Castiel stares at it a moment and takes it, shaking it politely and firmly, but releasing it just as fast.

_He’s not really a toucher, is he?_ Dean thinks to himself, wondering how this could get more awkward. 

The thing is, before, when they cleaned up the garden together, their dynamic wasn’t awkward. On the contrary, there was a sort of calm between them that made Dean feel comfortable around Cas.

But it’s only now, as they stand in the doorway ready to say goodbye, that Dean feels the awkward tension forming between them once again as it had this morning. 

“I’ll bring the scones next time,” Dean tries in an attempt to lighten the tension, only for his smile to fall flat when Castiel tilts his head in confusion. 

“What?”

“I was just, you know, uh—every time we’ve met, we’ve had some sort of breakfast, you know? Like a few days ago with the soufflés and today with the sunshine toast,” Dean says, wincing at himself as he speaks. He hadn’t realized how stupid the offer was until he was saying it out loud, but it’s too late now not to finish his thought. “I was just referring to that and offering to, uh…uphold the tradition, I guess?” he finishes, holding his breath and only releasing it when Castiel’s eyes light up momentarily.

“Oh, yes. I see what you mean,” Castiel says, the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “If you want to bring breakfast, you’re more than welcome to, but don’t feel obligated, of course.”

Dean smiles with relief, “Great, I-I will then.”

“I look forward to it.”

Giving a final, stiff nod and wave, Dean turns and makes his way out of the house where his bike lays waiting by the porch. It’s not the motorcycle, of course— he still needs to bring that into the shop for a fix up— instead, it’s a little red bicycle that Sam uses to ride to school everyday. The paint is chipped in some spots and the little bell is more decoration now than it’s actually useful and the bike as an entirety is an eyesore at best, but it works well and gets the job done, so he’s not complaining.

Feeling Castiel’s stare on his back, Dean hops on the bike, kicking back the kickstand, and pushing forward to gain momentum. Once he’s finally rolling down the driveway and onto the street, he waves to the man once again, and continues riding until Castiel’s house is far in the distance, hidden by trees.

It takes him longer to return home than it would actually driving back, but the ride is nice and relaxing with the sun bright in the sky and a nice breeze balancing out the heat, and he pulls into the bare, dirt driveway within twenty minutes.

Sam’s head pokes out from the other side of the screened-in window as Dean abandons the bike on their lawn. His brother watches him as he makes his way up the porch stairs and to the front door where he bangs his way in, bellowing a greeting.

“Where were you, Dean?” Sam asks, hopping down from the chair at the window to make his way over to Dean. He’s almost Dean’s height now, with a deepening voice to match, but Dean will always think of Sam as his kid-brother, even when he’s a giant looming over every normal-sized person.

“It’s nice to see you too, Sammy.”

Sam narrows his eyes in suspicion, “You never get up that early on your day off.”

“Got a new job and I’m working on sundays now,” Dean shrugs, expecting Sam to raise a skeptical brow or at least leave it be, but instead an almost guilty look flits over his younger brother’s face.

“You got a new job?”

“Yeah, so?”

Something in Sam’s face falls as he glances away nervously. “Is it because of what I told you last night?” he asks and Dean can’t help but shift uncomfortably.

Before Dean’s shift had begun at the diner, Sam had called, reminding Dean of yet another responsibility he has to take care of. His brother had signed up for a summer program for aspiring lawyers and while the extracurricular will be great for his resume and college applications, it’s also very expensive. And payment is due by tomorrow if Sam wants to keep his spot in the program.

At the time, Dean had been stressed about money issues— paying bills until Dad gets back, paying back Castiel for destroying the garden, and buying other necessities— but now that Castiel has enlisted Dean’s help in the rebuilding of his garden and will no longer need Dean to pay for the damages, Dean might just have enough money left to pay for Sam’s summer program.

But if he has to work longer hours at the diner and help a guy regrow a garden just so he can afford it, well, Sam doesn’t need to know.

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy,” Dean says, turning to make his way to the bathroom. There’s a thick layer of dirt and sweat on his skin and he’s in desperate need of a shower. “I’ll write you a check to bring in to the instructor tomorrow,” he adds as an afterthought, ending the conversation.

 * * *

Once Dean pulls out of the driveway, becoming a small figure in the distance, Castiel makes his way back into the house. Even though he and Dean did a lot of yard work, he still has a long list of things that need to be done today like cleaning up the house, doing the dishes, and getting some writing done. But after taking a short glance at the kitchen, with the dishes piling up in the sink and neglected kitchenware on the island, Cas turns around and heads upstairs, peeling off clothing as he goes. Working outside has rendered him dirty and sweaty, and while Cas loves the outdoors and feeling the hot sun on his skin, he’s not too fond of the after effects and can’t wait to get under the warm spray of the shower to clean up. 

And he doesn’t have to worry about modesty either as he undresses. With Dean’s departure and Gabriel on a lunch date with his not-girlfriend Kali, Castiel is alone in the house and doesn’t have to bother with closing doors or worrying about others seeing him.

Leaving a trail of dirty clothes behind him, he makes his way to the bathroom and turns on the water, grabbing a towel from the cabinet as he waits for it to heat up. Finally, he slips in under the warm spray and stands there a moment with his eyes closed, letting the water pound onto him and stream down his body. He smiles softly to himself, savoring these moments. 

Showering is his favorite part of the day not only for the cleanliness it brings, but also for the small amount of time he’s completely alone. Now that his brother’s moved back in for the time being, it’s the only privacy he gets and he takes advantage of the luxury to it’s full extent, standing under the spray for what seems like hours and letting his mind wander as the water pressure relieves his tension and earlier anxiety.

Cas begins humming gently to himself as he soaps up a loofa, scrubbing at his skin until the water washes away all signs of dirt and grime, and even after he’s finished cleaning himself off, he stays in the warmth of the spray, half singing the words of _La Noyee_ under his breath, unwilling to move.

If he gets out now, he’ll have to clean up the house and then he’ll have to work on his nonexistent novel, neither of which he really wants to do. He’d rather stay here, in the hot steam and water, separate from the world and responsibilities, for just a while longer.

Breathing in the warm air, Cas runs a hand through his wet hair and slowly lowers himself to the ground until he’s sitting on the cool, wet floor of the tub. If he’s going to use up all the warm water, he might as well be comfortable as he does it.

As his muscles begin to relax under the spray, Castiel traces imaginary lines onto his skin using the stream of water running down his legs and his mind wanders, drifting through various thoughts freely.

He traces an image of a daisy with his finger and plans on the flowers and shrubs he’ll buy to fill in the gap in his garden.

He writes meaningless words and quotes from his story in a lazy attempt at inspiration.

And he traces eyes, the color of which would be green if he had colors instead of imaginary lines, and wonders what Dean is doing right now and what they’ll do when he comes over next week.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**“The Sun Plays On”** ****

**Chapter Track: _Breakfast With Chopin_ \- Elizaveta**

 

With working constantly throughout the day and getting home late, only to get up early the next morning and repeat the cycle all over again, Dean’s week has gone by a lot faster than he would have liked, and Saturday night finds him scurrying around his kitchen in a last minute attempt to make scones for Castiel.

Sam eyes him curiously from where he sits at the kitchen table in a somewhat amused confusion as Dean hastily tosses each ingredient onto the counter and it only takes him about a half minute of watching his brother before Sam asks what he’s _doing_.

Hardly glancing up from chopping a handful of cranberries, Dean mutters, “Making scones, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“Yeah, I got that part, but why? You only ever bake for big occasions.”

“So? Maybe I’m just craving scones,” he shrugs in reply. 

“You hate scones.”

“Would you set the oven at 425° for me, I forgot to get it before I started.”

Sam nods, getting up to preheat the oven, but not before shooting his brother an incredulous look, and Dean glowers uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Okay, fine,” he grunts. “Maybe I’m making them for my—my boss, Cas.”

Castiel isn’t technically his boss, due to the fact he isn’t paying Dean for his work around the garden. Hell, Dean’s the one who owes _him_. But as far as Sam is concerned, working at the garden is just another job. Not reparations for a dumb mistake.

“Your new boss? For the job you’re working on Sundays?” Sam asks, oblivious to Dean’s mental struggle.

“Yeah. He’s some nerdy guy who needs help around his garden.”

“So, you’re a landscaper?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Sam hums at this, not saying anything for a moment. And Dean finds this silence, and Sam’s processing gaze, vaguely irritating to say the least.

“What?” he grunts and Sam just shakes his head, the slightest hint of an amused, smirk on his lips.

“Nothing, I just never really pegged you for the outdoorsy type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I can be outdoorsy,” he mutters more to himself than to Sam, but Sam just laughs.

“I don’t know. Maybe after being cooped up day after day indoors, I just needed the fresh air. And besides, it’s...relaxing in it’s own way.”

Hopping up on a chair at the island, Sam nods in understanding. “Yeah, I get that. People say being outdoors and around nature is therapeutic and relieves stress, so it might help.”

“Help with what?”

Sam doesn’t reply, and instead shrugs, snatching a cranberry from the cutting board before Dean stirs them into the batter.

* * *

As Dean pulls his little red bicycle into the paved driveway of Castiel’s cottage house with the container of freshly made scones in hand, he half expects Gabriel to answer the door again, spouting shit about his brother in that funny, yet intimidating, overprotective-brother sort of way. To his surprise, however, it’s Castiel who answers the door this time, and he smiles warmly, pulling the door open wider to let Dean enter. 

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel greets him as the two men make their way toward the kitchen, and Dean smiles, returning the sentiment.

“Morning, Cas. I, uh, brought the scones I promised.”

“Great, I’m looking forward to trying them. If they’re half as good as your soufflés, I might need the recipe,” Castiel smiles and Dean colors slightly under the praise. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Yeah, coffee would be great. Thanks.”

Cas hums, reaching for two tea cups from the cupboard, filling one with steaming black coffee and a kettle of boiling water into the other. He sets both cups onto the island and fetches a couple plates for the scones before plucking a biscuit from the container and putting it into a zip-lock bag.

“For Gabriel,” he explains, setting the scone aside and sliding back into his seat across Dean. “I’m sure he’ll want one when he gets back.”

Deans nods. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He, uh, went to church,” Cas replies, and from the way he glances away almost nervously, stuffing his mouth full of scone and quickly washing it down with a sip of tea, Dean understands that for whatever reason it may be, this isn’t a topic Castiel wants to talk about.

A few beats of silence pass before Castiel swallows a second bite of scone, humming in praise. “These are delicious, Dean. It’s like every time you bake something, the food gets better and better,” he says.

In a lazy attempt to hide his reddening blush, Dean shrugs bashfully. “It’s nothing. I just like making breakfast food. It’s good and quick and easy to make.”

“Well, you are very good at it all the same. Possibly the best, even, now that I’ve tried both your soufflés and scones.”

Dean glances away, unsure of what to say. He’s never really been good at accepting compliments in that there’s really only two optional reactions, neither of which he feels is truly socially acceptable. The first being  if he says something self-deprecating or brushes off the compliment, it’ll seem like he’s not thankful and is belittling Castiel's opinion. But then, if he accepts the compliment, he worries it’ll give off the impression that he’s prideful and arrogant.

So instead, he says nothing, and hopes his burning cheeks and averted, embarrassed gaze says enough.

“So what’s our plan for the day?” he asks, changing the subject. “Hunting for flowers?”

Castiel nods, a faint smile on his lips. “Yes. I was thinking we could go to the nursery and choose a couple flowers to fill the plot, and we could spent the rest of the day planting them.”

“Awesome. So, we’ll head out after breakfast?”

Castiel murmurs an _‘mhmm’_ and takes another bite of scone, sending both men into a comfortable silence.

* * *

The drive to the nursery is a scenic route, winding through the small town of Loveland and down alongside the Little Miami River. And not fifteen minutes later, they pass a field of sunflowers preening themselves in the sun, with the Eden’s Bloom sign sitting amongst them, announcing their destination.

“This is one of my favorite nurseries,” Castiel murmurs quietly as they pull into the drive beside the patch, entering the property. He parks the car in front of a small building with hanging plants and a wooden windmill. And once the two men slide out of the truck, Dean follows Castiel’s lead to the greenhouse, where an old man waters a few flowers in the front.

“Joshua!” Castiel calls, a warm familiarity coating his words, and the old man meets his eye fondly.

“Why, if it isn’t Castiel Milton!” he says, setting aside the watering can to make his way over to the two men.

“Joshua is the owner of Eden’s Bloom,” Castiel murmurs quietly to Dean as the man approaches them. “He’s an old friend of the family.”

“Didn’t I just see you a month or two ago?” Joshua asks, his dark eyes warm and welcoming. 

Castiel smiles in return, taking the old man’s hand in his. “One can never have too many flowers,” he says before turning to the man by his side. “And this is Dean, my… friend.”

“Ah, I see,” Joshua murmurs, something akin to understanding flickering in the old man’s eyes as he looks between both men, and it sends a vague sense of discomfort through Dean. He recognizes that look, that ‘I know what’s up’ look, and he feels the urge to let the man know that what he thinks is ‘up’ is certainly not ‘up.’ But the exchange passes just as quickly as it came when Castiel clears his throat awkwardly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” the man says, grasping Dean’s hand in his hands, warm and calloused with age.

“You, too, sir.”

Before the silence can prolong itself any longer, Castiel fills it. “Dean and I are just looking for flowers to plant in the garden,” he says, and Joshua laughs.

“I should hope, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to help,” the man replies, turning and ushering them into the greenhouse. “I believe I still have some of your usual favorites in stock, that you’ll be able to plant in late May, and there’s a few returns I’m sure you’d be interested in taking as well.”

“People usually return plants for a variety of reasons— mostly because they don’t know how to properly take care of the plants, and return them at the slightest ailment—so Joshua sells them to me for a discounted price,” Castiel explains.

“So your garden is like hospice for sick and dying plants?”

Castiel smiles at that, glancing up to meet Dean’s gaze. “Something like that.”

As they continue following the old man to the selection of flowers and shrubs, Joshua and Castiel talk in something that sounds like another language to Dean, using gardening terms that he’s sure he’ll never understand. Parts of the conversation with talk of transplanting some flowers from their containers into the plots in the garden, he understands adequately, but as far as perennials and bulbs go, the words are basically Klingon to him. (Though Dean knows more Klingon than he’d like to admit).

And once their cart is filled with different colorful plants— some of which Castiel identifies as Blue Mist Shrub, saying they’d be a beautiful contrast with the rose beds— the three men make their way from the greenhouse to the main building to purchase their verdure.

“We missed you at church this morning,” Joshua says, ringing up their purchases, and though the words seem like polite conversation, Dean can’t help but notice the way Castiel shifts uncomfortably and Joshua looks up at him, a tinge of sad bitterness embodying his eyes in an underlying conversation between the two men. 

“You know I’m not allo— I don’t go to weekly mass anymore, Joshua.”

Joshua nods again in a sad understanding Dean can’t quite place and says, “I know. But Missouri and I miss you all the same. And I’m sure other members of the congregation do too. It hasn’t been the same since— since you left.”

Castiel hums an awkward grunt before Joshua takes Cas’ hand in his own and looks up at him again with his big, dark eyes. “The important thing is that you keep your faith, Castiel. Don’t forget to pray and with the help of the Lord, our Father, they’ll come around. I’m sure of it.”

“I will,” Castiel murmurs weakly and the moment is so intense, so raw and vulnerable, that Dean wishes he wasn’t here witnessing it, and he glances away to give the men, especially Cas, an illusion of privacy. He doesn’t know what exactly they’re referring to, but from the way Castiel is tripping uncomfortably around his words and Joshua is consoling to him, he guesses something’s happened. Something that strangers like Dean shouldn’t know about. He has no right to be here during this conversation. He and Castiel have only just met and the fact that he’s here during Castiel’s state of duress is unintentionally prying. Joshua no doubt wouldn’t have brought up this hardship if he had known Dean and Castiel weren’t friends, much less something more. But now that the moment came to pass, the words have been said and done, and Dean knows of a vague mystery of Castiel’s past that probably shouldn’t have been revealed to him, he decides the best way to make Castiel feel better about this intrusion is to not mention it, and pretend as though he wasn’t there to witness it all together.

The two men say their goodbyes to the old nursery owner, piling the boxes of plants and flowers into the back of the truck, and drive away in silence, putting Eden’s Blooms and the patch of sunflowers in their rearview mirror along with all questions and mentions of the conversation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**   
>  [Summer Scones](http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2006/11/dream-a-little-dream-of-scone/)


	14. Chapter 14

**“And My Thoughts Are Low”**

**Chapter Track: _Charon_ \- Keaton Henson**

 

While Castiel is adamant that he and Dean share a connection, a special bond only kindred spirits could form, there are some things he still doesn’t want Dean to know, or at least not know yet. The two of them are still practically strangers, and with this newfound acquaintanceship comes a set of distinct boundaries and rules, the main rule being ‘ _do not ever bring up emotional baggage after only knowing each other for a week._ ’

And it’s just Castiel’s luck that Joshua would bring up the worst of said baggage in front of Dean. Granted, there was no way Joshua could have known him and Dean were just in the beginnings of friendship, and from the way he studied them during their introductions, the man seemed to believe there was the inkling of something more. But still, even if Joshua thought Castiel was comfortable enough around Dean to talk about his past so openly around him, he shouldn’t have brought it up. Joshua’s heart is in the right place, and God knows Castiel appreciates his unconditional support, but the only thing Castiel’s worrying about now is scaring away his potential friend because of an accidental reveal of messy, emotional baggage that’s resulted in five years of therapy and a lifetime supply of prescription drugs.

He sighs, turning the key into the ignition, and wishes that he could somehow redo the encounter all together and make it so Dean wouldn’t have to hear any of that. It’s way too early in their kinship to burden him with such drama and Castiel would give anything to evade the humiliating conversation altogether.

But he guesses if Dean had to find out the basics one way or another that he was glad it was Joshua to do the bidding and not his brother. At least Joshua was subtle in his words and allusions to the situation. Michael, his elder brother, would have been blunt, using his cold demeanor to make the situation that much worse and that much awkward for Dean, who’s so innocent and has done nothing to subject himself to this much drama. He shouldn’t have to deal with this, and hopefully he won’t. Hopefully this will be the last he has to hear about Castiel’s disappointing life and series of mess ups. Castiel would hate to burden him any more than he already has. 

Castiel can only imagine what Dean must be thinking right now. He’s probably so uncomfortable. He probably thinks Castiel is the type of person who will unleash their whole life story on strangers, burdening everyone who will listen with their problems. Dean hasn’t said anything since they got into the car and began their trip home, and he’s probably regretting even agreeing to help Castiel. He probably thinks Castiel is crazy. A crazy, emotionally unstable recluse who has a vast collection of plants because he has no friends. A crazy man who drops all his baggage on others and scares away everyone with his panics and drama and—

“Cas?” Dean says softly, snapping Castiel from his mind, storming with a thousand different thoughts at once, and Castiel glances away from the road a minute to the man sitting beside him. But Dean doesn’t look disgusted, nor annoyed by Castiel’s drama. Instead, his eyebrows are pinched slightly and if Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d say Dean looks _concerned_. 

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright? You look a bit pale,” Dean asks and Castiel inhales a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to work it’s way inside him and hopefully decrease the anxiety beginning to pump its way through his veins.

“Yes, Dean,” he wills his voice to remain level. “I think it’s just the humidity or something. When we get back, instead of gardening immediately, how about we make something to eat, huh?”

Dean nods quietly in agreement.

* * *

Soon enough, they pull into the driveway of Castiel’s little home. Deciding to get a couple things set up and in order before they go in for lunch, the men carry the crates of plants from the back of Cas’ truck, around the side of the house to the garden. There’s not too many plants, so the work isn’t time consuming nor difficult and with a couple trips, they already have most of the plants moved to the back of the house.

But as Dean pulls one of the last crates from the back of the car, he notices that there aren’t just shrubs inside, but a small watering can and gardening supplies tucked inside the box as well. 

“Hey, Cas,” he calls and the man appears from around the side of the house. “What are these? What do you want me to do with them?”

Once Castiel is close enough, he looks into the box curiously, and he looks up at Dean, an almost nervous smile on his lips as he replies quietly. “Oh, I bought those for you. I felt bad making you use my old tools, so I just went ahead and bought a couple new ones for you to use while you’re working here.”

And now, it’s Dean’s turn to blush bashfully. “You didn’t have to do that, Cas. I was more than fine usin’ your other ones.”

“Yeah, but they’re old,” Castiel shrugs, glancing away. “And I would have hated for you to get hurt if one of the tools had broken or something.”

“What, like getting hurt using an old watering can with a leak in it?” Dean smiles, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of rusting tools or worn out gloves,” Castiel explains, a faint pink color tinging his cheeks. “But you’ll thank me, Dean Winchester, when your pants don’t get soaked from the hole-less watering can.”

With a smile, he takes the last crate from Dean’s hands and disappears behind the side of the house once again, leaving Dean at the truck and calling behind him, “And besides, when you’re gone, I can put the new tools to use.” 

And while the words are meant to be comforting, so Dean won’t feel bad for making Castiel buy him the gardening tools, the words ‘when you’re gone’ still hang in the air, leaving a faint discomfort in Dean’s stomach, the meaning of which he can’t place.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief hiatus! I got super blocked for a couple weeks and just needed a break for a while, but now I've finally got my mojo back and will (hopefully) be back to updating once a week again.  
> We're almost halfway through the story and I want to thank you for all your support— everyone who's reading and commenting and kudosing, thank you, I love you so much<3

**“When the Evening Pulls the Sun Down”**

**Chapter Track: _Bloom_ \- The Paper Kites**

 

After lunch, the two men find themselves back in the garden, surrounded by crates of colorful shrubbery and flowers, and Castiel can’t help but remember when he first began this garden— standing in this exact spot, wondering where to begin. 

Looking at everything in it’s entirety, from the plants to the plots to the tools, is daunting in itself, but Castiel has found with enough practice and time, that if he works step by step as if putting a puzzle together piece by piece rather than trying to create the final image all at once, the process isn’t nearly as overwhelming. Over the past five years, he’s managed to find a system that has helped him, and he hopes it’ll work for Dean as well.

“So...where exactly do we begin?” Dean asks, eyeing the crates with the same look of unnerve Castiel remembers having years ago.

He clears his throat for a moment, trying to piece together his words before replying. “Well, since we’re heading into late spring, Joshua gave us plants that will bloom in July to late summer,” he says before pointing to a couple crates to the right. “Those plants— the Blue Mist shrub, impatiens, and hydrangeas— we can plant in the beds because they’re dormant enough to be transplanted. So, we can can start with planting those and then move onto the next parts of the garden afterword.”

Dean nods thoughtfully in response, and Castiel smiles. Gardening is a lot more complex than people assume, and with taking in factors like the pH of the soil and understanding which flowers are best to plant in certain locations and climates, it can be quite overwhelming for beginners. But from what Castiel has noticed of Dean’s work ethic from when he helped in the garden before and was determined to repay Castiel for the damage he caused, Castiel believes Dean will be up for the challenge.

Just as they did the week before, the two men gather their supplies and begin working, with Castiel giving Dean short lessons and tips around the garden and Dean listening in earnest, nodding as he takes in each and every piece of information Castiel gives.

After teaching Dean how to plant the Oakleaf hydrangeas properly (in the bed near the rightmost fence so they bloom more colorfully with the help of the well-drained soil and light shade), Castiel heads over to the other side of the garden to plant the Blue Mist shrubs by their rose counterparts. He loves the way the plants’ colors look together, the way the blues, purples, and reds compliment each other and intertwine as a whole work of art rather than separate pieces when they bloom. It’s one of his favorite parts of gardening— creating color schemes and patterns of nature as if he were an painter, designing colorful palettes on a canvas of green. And it’s something Castiel truly believes; that gardening is art in it’s purest form.

By the time he’s done with the shrubs, he glances up to see Dean still digging holes in the soil and planting the hydrangeas as he hums quietly to himself, fully immersed in his work. And Castiel finds himself smiling softly, a wave of endearment pooling in his stomach, as he watches. Dean is just so different than what he would have expected; the man drives a motorcycle and wears a beat up leather jacket, which doesn’t really say ‘gentle and sweet gardener,’ and yet, here he is, planting and taking care of Castiel’s garden as if it were his own. 

A few moments later, Dean finishes planting the last hydrangea, patting the soil around it neatly before looking up to meet Castiel’s gaze.

“Did I do it alright?” he asks hesitantly, relaxing slightly when Castiel nods.

“Yes, you did very well, Dean.”

Dean’s lips curl into a small, bashful smile and he glances away, murmuring a thanks under his breath.

Once they finish with the Blue Mist shrubs and hydrangeas, they spend rest of the afternoon sowing seeds, and Castiel teaches Dean how to prick out lobelia seedlings, dropping groups of the tiny seeds into separate holes in celled trays.

“Some plants, like lobelia seeds, aren’t very substantial,” he explains. “So we have to prick them out in small groups of five or six so they can grow into stronger and fuller plants when they mature.”

“And after they grow, we transfer them from the pots into the actual flower beds?”

Castiel nods, “precisely.”

Soon after, they finish pricking out the lobelias, repeating the process with pincushion, tickseed, and clarkia, sowing the different seeds in their respective pots and setting them alongside the trellis one by one. By then it’s close to five and while the sun is still bright and shining in the sky, it’s warmth is almost stale and cooling in the air around them as the afternoon turns to evening. 

“Is there anything left we need to do today?” Dean asks, rubbing his dirt stained hands on the front of his jeans. His question is polite and accommodating, but Castiel can’t help but feel a strange unsettled feeling unravel itself in his stomach as he discerns the hidden meaning: ‘ _when can I leave?_ ’ 

He doesn’t understand why the implication hurts him, nor can he decide why he doesn’t want Dean to leave just yet. He supposes it’s because Dean is good company, especially in the hours his brother is away and the rest of his family and friends ignore him. But whatever the reason is, his unease consumes his thoughts greatly and he can’t stop himself before saying, “No, we’re finished for the day, unless you’d like to stay for a little supper before you go?”

Dean looks at him and Castiel’s stomach drops. “Don’t feel obligated, of course. You probably have important things to do with the rest of your day,” he adds quickly, but Dean just smiles awkwardly.

“Well, I’d hate to bother you with any plans you have—”

“You’re never a bother, Dean,” he says reassuringly. “I usually overcook anyway and with Gabriel gone a lot, it’ll be nice to have the company.”

At this, Dean nods and the two men make their way inside to find leftover food in Castiel’s kitchen, feeling any remaining uneasiness in the atmosphere evaporate as they go.


	16. Chapter 16

**“I Say My ‘Amen’ Because I Feel Blessed”**

**Chapter Track: _Big Houses_ \- Squalloscope**

 

Once inside and having scavenged the fridge and pantry for a good fifteen minutes, both men eventually settle on something fairly simple for supper: pizza.

When Dean suggests it, saying he’s craving something easy and italian, he just expects Castiel to pick up the phone and order Marco’s. What he doesn’t expect is for Castiel to nod and start pulling out french bread, vegetables, and cheese from the fridge.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he asks, and Castiel’s lips pull into the barest hint of a smile as he places more seemingly random ingredients on the counter.

“You said you wanted something italian, so we’re making pizza,” he replies simply.

“Yeah, but since when does pizza have french bread and— is that _goat_ cheese?”

Castiel nods. “Of course, it’s one of the main ingredients of Spinach and Goat Cheese French Bread Pizza, Dean.”

“Say what now? Please tell me you made that up.”

“I did not. But if it’s any consolation, my brothers and I used to make it every Wednesday night when I was a child.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Dean says, eyeing over the mismatched ingredients once again. “But why every Wednesday night?”

“Can you pull out the skillet, please? We’ll need to sauté and season this spinach while we get the bread ready.”

Dean nods and pulls the pan from the cupboard before lighting the stove and setting it on top.

“My father would hold mass on both Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. However, Wednesday night was a school night and my brothers and I were not obligated to go, so long as we did our homework and chores,” Castiel says finally as he sprinkles handfuls of torn spinach on to the bottom of the pan. He glances up a moment, giving Dean a small mischievous smile. “But we mostly just made food and binge-watched _X-Files_.”

Dean laughs at this, imagining a tiny, eleven-year-old Castiel stuffing his face with pizza as he secretly marathons TV shows with his brothers instead of doing homework or going to church. “Oh, you little rebel,” he says fondly and Cas smiles up at him.

They go about finishing up the recipe, creating the garlic tomato paste to spread over the slices of french bread before topping it with the spinach, cheese, and hardboiled egg slices. Finally, they broil the pizzas for two minutes to let the cheese melt on top.

With the pizzas transferred from the oven rack to paper plates, they make their way to the living room couches to eat, making light conversation as they go.

“So, why are we eating in the living room instead of at the table?”

Castiel shrugs beside him. “It seems like a laid back night, and besides, we get a better view of the garden in the living room than we do in the kitchen.”

Dean nods in return, glancing through the huge windows and smiling at the sight. They still have a long way to go, but with a few blooms planted already here and there, and the seeds pricked and ready grow in their tiny homes, the garden bears a sense rejuvenation Dean hadn’t thought was possible. 

The two men take seats on opposite ends of the couch, resting their plates on the coffee table until they’re cool enough to eat. And with Dean’s place being closest to the bookshelves, Dean can’t help but let his gaze roam over the titles once again as he had the first time he was in this room. Just like the time before, most of the books seem unfamiliar— he hasn’t read them, and probably never will— but still, he recognizes the titles and wonders what it would feel like to look through library and know all the books from front to back. His eyes move past _Plight of Righteous Men_ yet again, slowing and savoring the way the title’s letters emboss themselves on the leather clad spine, and a pang of loss seeps into his stomach. Dean will never know that story from front to back. He never finished it. He’ll only ever remember it’s beginning, but never the end.

Castiel’s talking about something quietly, but his words are mere buzz in the background as Dean wonders about the book’s ending. Before he can stop himself, he plucks the book from the shelf and leafs to the last few pages, letting his fingertips graze over the text. He barely processes a word on the last page before Cas’ voice floods in through his ears, muddling his thoughts.

“—supposed to be back hours ago. I think Kali forgave him for being a jerk, so he’s probably staying with her no— oh, sorry I was rambling.”

Dean glances up, blushing a little at getting caught in the act. He’d never been a reader, but there was just something about this book that struck a chord with him. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get distracted or anything.”

“No, no, don’t apologize. I got carried away,” Castiel smiles again softly before glancing down at the book in Dean’s hands. His eyes widen slightly in recognition. “Oh, that’s a, uh, good book.”

“Yeah, I really like it too.”

“Would it— could I ask what you thought of it?” he asks after a moment, his voice unsure. 

Nodding, Dean looks down and leafs through the pages, trying to find the words. “Yeah, I- uh. I’m not much of a reader, but my friend, Charlie, told me to read it. And it’s really good— helped me through some shit, actually— but I- I never finished it.” He shakes head, silently cursing himself for stumbling through his words like an idiot. Though idiotic and messy they might sound, they’re true all the same.

“That’s interesting that you thought that. I guess I could say it helped me through some things too,” Castiel replies, before adding quietly, “Could I ask why you stopped though?”

Dean just shrugs. “I’m just a slow reader and, uh, shit happens.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a slow reader; you take time to live in the words rather than just skimming through text, and I find that admirable,” Castiel smiles. “You can borrow it if you’d like to finish it. I’m interested in seeing what you think of the ending.”

They lock gazes for a moment with Dean unsure of what to say. Castiel has a way about him that often makes Dean forget how to speak. He never knows what to say, even if it’s just a simple word of thanks, and all he can manage is, “Really?”

“Of course.”

Even though a warm feeling of relief floods through him, and he finally feels hope for the ending, Dean just nods. “Thanks man,” he says, setting the book down between them. “Now lets eat this pizza before it cools too much.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**   
>  [ Spinach and Goat Cheese French Bread Pizza](http://www.yummly.com/recipe/external/Goat-cheese-spinach-pizza-350262)
> 
> (The original recipe I used was in the cookbook [Light & Easy Comfort Food](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/433913.Southern_Living_Light_Easy_Comfort_Food) and I couldn't find it online, but this recipe works just as well)


	17. Chapter 17

**“I'm Not Likely to Be Someone You Want”**

**Chapter Track: _From Above_ \- Rae Morris**

 

After Dean leaves, the house seems quiet and vacant, and Castiel returns to his seat at the sofa. By now the plates have been cleared off the coffee table, and the book shelf has a small gap on the third level, marking where Dean had borrowed his book. 

_His_ book.

_Plight of Righteous Men._

Castiel lets out a shallow breath as he lets his finger trail the empty space on the shelf where the book used to be. As per usual, there’s about a thousand conflicting emotions dancing in his thoughts, but this time they’re centered around a single subject. The book.

On one hand, he’s quite excited for Dean to read it— excited to share his work with his friend and maybe understand Dean better through his criticisms and thoughts of it.

But on the other hand, he’s nervous. It doesn’t matter that Dean said he liked what he read so far, and that there’s no reason for him to lie— he hadn’t known he was talking to the author so there was no need to filter his criticism for Castiel’s sake. But still, Castiel’s worry exceeds him. 

What if Dean doesn’t like the ending? The ending, though realistic it may be, optimistic it certainly is not. It nearly broke Castiel to write the ending, for he wrote it under turmoil and pain, and thus, the ending reflects his own agony and outlook on the world around him. At the time, he truly believed the underlying theme of it; that while his ‘lifestyle,’ as some put it, is no sin at all, there’s no way to change the minds of those who think differently. Sometimes he still feels that way.

So, in a single phrase, the ending is what Castiel is most afraid of. Dean said he liked the book, and that it helped him in some way, and Castiel doesn’t want to let him down through the pessimistic tone the ending brings.

And then, there’s the separate issue of his deception in not telling Dean that he had actually _written_ the book. At first, his silence had been out of fear of Dean’s harsh criticism, but even after Dean’s review came back fairly positive and he expressed interest in finishing the novel, Castiel still decided to keep the information to himself.

He supposes he chose to out of keen interest to hear Dean’s pure thoughts, unfiltered by the knowledge that he’s talking to the author, but mostly, he knows he still keeps the information to himself out of fear.

Fear of Dean hating the ending. Fear of judgment. Fear of his disappointment. Fear of Dean thinking he’s untrustworthy for not telling him if he ever finds out. Fear of any and all the possibilities.

Castiel takes a deep breath in and glances at the clock on the wall. 8:42 PM. He’s already taken his dose of Prozac for the day and there’s no use of taking it until tomorrow morning, so he settles on a cup of warm tea and honey, and cuddles on his couch, hoping the warmth of the drink will dissolve his anxiety like the honey swirling about inside the cup.

* * *

When Castiel wakes up, he’s still curled on the couch, and the bright light streaming through the windows of the living room momentarily blind him as he opens his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the sofa, but the cushions had been so comfy and he must have gotten so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized he was drifting until it was too late. But at least he had enough sense to set his mug of tea on the coffee table before he dozed off, he thinks. Though he did seem forget the importance of a coaster in that sleepy haze.

Castiel lifts the mug off the table to rub his thumb over the ring it left on the wood, but when the phone rings suddenly, he sighs, resigned to placing the mug back onto the coffee table before turning to answer the caller.

He mumbles a groggy hello, only to be jolted awake by the cheery voice on the other end of the line.

“Good morning, Cassie!”

“Gabe.”

His brother laughs almost a tone too loudly for Castiel’s sleep addled head. “Don’t sound so excited to hear from me.”

Castiel doesn’t reply, instead shaking his head and waiting for Gabriel to continue.

“Anyway, guess who’s officially gotten back with his old girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, you?”

“No, need to be so sarcastic. Geez, you’re grumpy in the morning,” Gabriel says. “Anyway, yeah. Kali and I talked about everything— well, we also did a lot more than just _talking_ — but she said the reason why she was so upset before was because I’m always away because of my business trips.”

Castiel nods, listening to his brother ramble on as he gets up from the couch to empty his half filled mug of tea in the sink.

“—so I told her I’d try to tone them down a bit or at least take her with me, and she seemed to like that idea, so we’re back together now.”

“That’s great, Gabriel. But, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you calling to tell me this?” he asks, and he hears his brother clear his throat on the other end.

“Well, that’s the thing. Kali said because I’m staying with you and then I’m always traveling on top of that, she feels like we never see each other much anymore, so she asked if we could just move in together.”

“And?”

Silence falls between both ends as Castiel waits for Gabriel to continue.

“And— I don’t know. I told her I’d think about it.”

“What? Why?”

Castiel hears his brother sigh quietly and his stomach drops. He knows what’s coming next. 

“I- I’m just worried about you, Cas. With everything that’s gone on— with the church, with your anxiety and panic attacks, and now, with Dean. I just— I don’t know if nows a good time to leave.”

“You wouldn’t be leaving, Gabriel. You’d be like ten minutes away.”

“Yeah, but just— I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you or anything—”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“And what if you get another panic attack? I want to be there to help, just in case. And I still don’t trust that kid Dean. Especially, if you’re alone in your house—”

“I’m twenty-six, Gabriel. I don’t need my big brother coming to my rescue anymore.” 

His brother sighs on the other end. “I know, I know. I just— I’m still worried about you. That’s a good enough reason as any.”

“I know, and I’m thankful for everything you’ve done— standing up for me when everyone else left, staying with me to make sure I’d be okay. You deserve this, Gabe. You deserve to be happy and be with Kali. And I’ll be okay on my own. God knows the lack of your distractions will help me write faster,” he chuckles quietly. “And if anything happens, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

The two fall quiet for a moment before Castiel speaks again, “Come get your stuff out of my guest room and I’ll make us lunch before I help you move.”

Although they’re speaking on the phone, a mere couple miles between them, Castiel feels his brother smiling softly on the other end.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**“I’ll Take You to the Moon”**

**Chapter Track: _Loving Strangers_ \- Russian Red**

 

Dean starts at the beginning. It doesn’t matter that he’s read it partially before and it doesn’t matter that he remembers those first chapters as if they’re engraved in his mind. The middle is hardly ever a good place to start, especially not for Dean. So he starts at page one and works forward from there.

But his experience is different from the first time he started reading the book. Back then, with his eyes wide with curiosity and fear, he’d been in the process of discovering himself and his body. He’s still like that now, the emotions constantly burn inside him, conflicting and crashing against his bones, but somehow he feels more stable.

His current experience is different in that when he first began the story, he had not a single clue of anything. He had no one, just a single book with words on paper that might bear an answer to his questions.

But now he has Cas.

While Castiel doesn’t know everything about him, Dean still feels close to the man in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, if not forever. Castiel has forgiven him for his mistakes, allowed him to make amends, and has gone far enough to share pieces of himself throughout their acquaintanceship. It’s because of this kindness that Dean had been willing to offer a fragment of himself that night. He told him about reading the book and how it helped him, and while he was vague on the how and why, Castiel still accepted his words and even encouraged him to finish it.

And somehow, as Dean reads the book, he feels even closer to Castiel. He supposes it’s just one of those things— like how you can understand a person through the books in their library the same way you can tell a lot about them through the car they drive. 

But even so, a part of him feels like it’s more than that. 

In a strange way, he feels that Castiel is a _part_ of the book, like his soul and being are somehow mixed in with the ink. It’s a phenomenon he’s never experienced before, yet here it is. With every page he reads, he feels his new friend there with him— his own words and mannerisms reflecting in the pages, and when the main character, Christian Tausen, speaks, it’s Castiel’s voice he hears in his mind.

He doesn’t tell Castiel this, though. Hell, he hardly even lets himself acknowledge it, instead electing to believe the “ _books + cars = personality_ ” approach. But whatever the true reason is, he can’t deny that it has brought him and Castiel exceptionally closer as they slowly develop from acquaintances to something almost like friendship.

A couple weeks ago, Dean would have hardly thought it was possible to become friends with the man whose property he’d nearly destroyed. But now, as they settle into a comfortable routine, he’d dare say he was wrong.

Their routine had began subtly on the very first day they’d started working together, but Dean hadn’t truly noticed it cementing into place until Cas lent him _Plight of Righteous Men_ — the very book that’s started to forge a connection between the two.

Since Castiel lent him the book, Dean’s hardly put it down— reading it at the breakfast table before work, flipping through the pages during breaks, and curling up with it before going to bed each night. He’s been so caught up in the story unfolding that the days and nights have started to blur together like abstract paint on a canvas, and Saturday night finds him still flipping through its pages eagerly, unaware of the time slipping past him.

* * *

By the time Dean wakes up, the sun has already risen, shining brightly through the window and momentarily blinding him as he opens his eyes. He yawns, trying to sift through muddled thoughts and remember when he even _fell_ asleep, but the more he thinks, the more tired his mind gets and all he wants to do is just fall back asleep in his bed. He’s about to, too, but before he can, his mind betrays him, reminding him of one important fact— it’s Sunday.

Shit. 

With that realization, Dean bolts out of bed, nearly tripping over scattered clothes on the floor to get to the bathroom. After slamming the door behind him, he rushes to brush his teeth as he shimmies into a pair of somewhat clean jeans he found hanging on the towel rack. 

He can’t believe he accidentally slept in. What was he thinking? Why didn’t he set his alarm? Now Cas is going to think he’s irresponsible. It’s just his luck, really. And things were just beginning to go well…

Dean sighs, cursing himself again for being so stupid and rushes out the door, yelling ‘goodbye’ to Sam before he slams it shut behind him.

A nearly record-breaking eight minutes later, Dean peddles up Castiel’s driveway, face red with embarrassment from his mistake as well as the vigorous exercise in a short period of time (no human should have to work that hard in just a matter of minutes).

He hops off the bike, abandoning it at the porch, and rings the bell, waiting for Castiel’s unimpressed face to greet him. But to his surprise, the man opens the door with the same warm smile like the times before, as if Dean hadn’t shown up nearly an hour and a half late.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says quickly before Castiel can speak. “I, uh, accidentally slept in.”

Castiel smiles. “It’s no problem, Dean. Come on in.”

Dean nods, and the two men make their way inside to the kitchen.

“Have you eaten yet?”

Glancing shyly at his stomach, Dean realizes he hadn’t eaten in his frenzy to come over as quick as possible and from his silence, Castiel guesses accordingly. “I haven’t either actually. I was actually just going to eat toast and make a cup of tea for breakfast, but we could whip up something if you’d like.”

“No, that’s alright, man,” he replies quickly, not wanting to be any more of a burden, but the grumble of his stomach betrays him, and Castiel chuckles quietly.

“Listen, I’m not going to let you work all day on an empty stomach. I actually like cooking and I know you do too,” he says, casting an amused glance Dean’s way. “So why don’t we make breakfast before getting to work?”

Dean eyes Castiel warily. “Are you sure? I don’t—”

“Dean, it’s fine. I don’t mind, and I’m actually craving poffertjes right now, so we could make those if you want,” Castiel suggests, and Dean can’t help but do a double take, stopping mid-protest to glance up at the man with unmitigated shock flitting across his face.

“Poop cheese?” he asks, hoping he didn’t hear him right.

To his relief, Castiel’s lips spread into a fond smile as he chuckles. “No, no. _Poffertjes_ ,” he reiterates, and Dean can’t help but watch his lips, trying to imitate the way his mouth moves as he says the words.

“Puffchess?” 

Cas smiles again, shaking his head before annunciating every syllable, “Poh- fer- jiss.”

“Poh- fer- jiss?” he tries again, not being able to hold back his smile of victory when Cas nods. 

“Poffertjes.”

“Poffertjes!”

Both men laugh at the absurdity of their conversation and Dean finally concedes, hungry enough to stop protesting the offer. “Alright, man. You win. So what’re poffertjes?” he asks, making sure to pronounce the word correctly this time.

“Think of them as tiny Dutch pancakes,” Cas says, bending down to fetch a pan from the bottom cupboard. The cast iron skillet seems normal enough when he pulls it out, that is, until Dean notices the dozen indents on its surface. The face he supposedly makes earns him another laugh from Castiel, “And this is the pan we’ll use to make them.”

Dean nods, still surveying the strange pan as Castiel begins pulling out the ingredients and ordering Dean to help him measure and mix them in separate bowls.

“So if they’re basically just pancakes, why don’t we make them the normal way?” he asks, stirring the yeast in a bowl of milk waiting for it to dissolve.

“Well, I could say that making these gives us a more cultured experience and that eating food from other countries broadens our perspective on life and the world around us, but honestly, I just think they’re cuter this way,” the man admits, glancing up at Dean with a shy, almost teasing smile and Dean can’t help but return it.

A couple minutes later, after all the ingredients are mixed together in a single bowl, Castiel covers it with a sheet of plastic wrap, saying they’ll have to let it sit for an hour before it’s ready to use. Dean grumbles jokingly that the ‘poop cheese’ is a lot more difficult to make than regular-sized pancakes, and Cas just laughs, lightly swatting Dean’s arm as they make their way to the kitchen table.

Remembering from past breakfasts they’ve shared, Castiel pours a fresh cup of coffee for Dean and tea for himself as they wait.

“So have you started reading the book yet?” Castiel asks, bringing the steaming cup of tea to his lips, but the heat seems to startle him and he returns it to its place on the table. Dean tries not to smile at the action as he replies.

“Yeah. Been reading every chance I get. I’m only on Chapter Three, though,” he replies.

“That’s alright, take all the time you need.”

Dean nods quietly, thankful for Castiel’s patience. 

“So what do you think about it now that you’re reading it again?”

Biting his lip, Dean glances down at the black liquid in his mug, trying to gather his thoughts on his book. There’s so many things he could say about it— how it inspired him and taught him about sexuality and love, how it helped him get through the confusion of decision, and also how it impacted his relationships within his own family. But all the things that he could say, and even wants to say, he shouldn’t. So he takes the safe route.

“It’s, uh— it’s good. Amazing, even. I can see why you’d like it,” he admits and a mixed look of surprise and something else Dean can’t quite place flits across Castiel’s face.

“Really? Why is that?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Just the characters, maybe not Benedict, but definitely Christian seems a lot like you. Benedict’s more impulsive and brooding, and so is Christian in a way, but he’s also more thoughtful and quiet, I guess. I mean, their problems are exactly the same, but it’s the way that they handle it that makes them different, and the way Christian handles it just seems… like you, I guess,” Dean says, trailing off near the end, hoping he didn’t scare Castiel off because his over-sharing and analysis of the story. “I don’t know though, maybe it’s just one of those things like how people tend to like books that have characters that reflect themselves or something,” he quickly adds at the end, dodging Castiel’s unreadable gaze.

It takes Castiel a moment to reply but when he does, there’s almost a quiet teasing tone in his words. “You have a point, Dean. So, I suppose you like it because you and Benedict are similar too? You both do have green eyes,” he observes, smiling.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Thankfully, though, he’s saved by Castiel standing up to dump the rest of his tea down the sink.

“I think the batter should be ready for us to use now,” he says, and Dean stands up to help him.

Castiel shows him how to pour the batter into each individual dimple on the pan, how much should be poured and how long they should cook, and soon enough, they have two plates filled with poffertjes, or as Dean calls them, tiny pancake puffs. And he has to admit, Cas is right— they are pretty cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**   
>  [Powdered Poffertjes](http://dutchfood.about.com/od/pancakes/r/ClassicPoffertjes.htm)


	19. Chapter 19

**“Count All the Beautiful Things We Can See”**

**Chapter Track: _In the Aeroplane Over the Sea_ \- Neutral Milk Hotel**

 

As the weeks pass, drifting into the warmth of July, Castiel feels his and Dean’s friendship bloom  brightly like the flowers in the garden. Gardening together has sowed the seeds, but Castiel has found that it’s Dean reading his book that has truly rooted their acquaintanceship into a deeper friendship of sorts. And with this friendship, Castiel feels the anxiety of the unknown being replaced with calm stability. It’s become a constant in his life, he knows exactly what to expect each time, and he can’t help but count down the days till the next Sunday.

Every Sunday morning, Dean will arrive early so they’ll be able to make breakfast together. The meals vary from cinnamon rolls to popovers, but whatever sweet treat they make, Castiel finds he enjoys the time he spends talking to Dean more than he does eating the food later. As they bake, their conversations range from discussing his book to sharing stories and such. Castiel still tends to shy away from too personal details about himself, but even so, he feels himself opening up more than he would normally for someone outside his immediate family. Regardless of the topic, their conversations carry from breakfast to working in the garden. 

Though the main job of planting the flowers and shrubs is finished, the men have moved onto other tasks. And one Sunday in the middle of July finds them fixing the wooden fence surrounding the garden.

After breakfast, Castiel tells Dean to wait out in the back while he goes to the garage to gather supplies and he laughs as the man’s eyes widen when he drops them at his feet. It takes a while to teach Dean the different uses for each tool, but like gardening, Dean learns rather quickly, and now, ten minutes later, both men work side by side, pulling out pieces of the broken picket fence one wooden plank at a time. 

They work quickly but diligently and by the time lunch rolls around, the broken planks have been taken out and piled in the back of Castiel’s pickup. Most of the fence remains standing, its fading white giving it an almost nostalgic glow, and Castiel is thankful for that. Luckily they have to replace only a couple panels on the side. And with a fresh coat of paint along the entirety of the fence, it’ll look good as new. 

He beams at Dean, proud of their work even though they aren’t even finished yet, and though Dean smiles in return, he can’t look away from the smile in the man’s green eyes.

In an unspoken agreement, both men head in for lunch. Today’s special isn’t much compared to the last few meals, but considering their big breakfast of pancakes and eggs, the kale and banana smoothie is just enough.

He makes it quickly, humming along to the tune of _Daisy Bell_ as it plays on his radio’s oldies-station. Dean makes a show of looking disgusted when he sets the green drink in front of him, but quickly goes quiet as he settles on sucking on the straw with a pleasantly surprised look in his eye.

“Never knew rabbit food could taste this good,” he murmurs quietly, and Castiel laughs. 

Right after lunch, Castiel shows Dean to the garage where his woodworking equipment waits for them. It’s been a long while since he’s had the chance to actually do anything with it, and it really isn’t his favorite hobby, but the fence needs to be fixed and with Dean’s help, the work shouldn’t be too troublesome.

He shows Dean some of the equipment and the planks of wood that will replace the broken ones, and soon enough, the men get straight to work. With his help and instruction, Dean is able to use the bandsaw to cut the posts and trim down the rails and stakes down to their correct size. While keeping an eye on Dean, Castiel works on the finishing touches of each piece, making sure to cut and form the post caps and grab paint they’ll need for later.

Once finished with their tasks, they meet each other’s eyes and Dean puffs air from his cheeks. Not being one for teasing, Castiel still can’t help but smirk at Dean’s exhaustion. “We’re not done yet, Dean. We still need to _erect_ the fence.”

Dean’s reaction is almost as surprising as the words from Castiel’s mouth. The man looks at him, furrowing his brow as his cheeks redden softly. He seems surprised at the choice of words, but is able to shake away the feeling under the veil of confidence as he chuckles, returning Castiel’s smirk. “Who knew gardening could be so dirty,” he retorts, waggling his eyebrows, and Castiel can’t help but laugh nervously.

Though Dean gathers the posts and makes his way to the garden ending the vaguely flirty conversation, Castiel can’t help but linger on the man’s reaction. For a minute, Dean seemed so surprised that Castiel had made a joke, even more so that it was a dirty one. And then, for some reason, he seemed nervous. _Why did he blush?_ he wonders. But then, of course, Dean’s vulnerabilities were dissolved by his flirtatious comeback. The red in his cheeks fading behind his confident facade.

Recalling these details makes Castiel that much more drawn to Dean as a human being. He loves how Dean is an open book— one with a hard leather spine, but still easy to open and flip through the pages. He loves the way Dean’s thoughts flash across his face, showing entire conversations spoken in his mind. And he loves the way so many of Dean’s emotions conflict with one another through this private conversation— the surprise, the embarrassment, and finally, the flirty confidence that attempts to shield it all.

Castiel loves these aspects of Dean, and he loves that he’s observant enough to catch them. From the moment he saw Dean crying in his garden among the shredded flowers, he knew Dean was special. And now that he knows Dean, he’s even more sure of the fact.

Dean inspires him in a way nothing else has before. Gardening helps him nurture, woodworking helps him create shapes from his hands, and writing helps him live. But Dean— Dean’s emotions, his way of life, gives a strange meaning to it all. He knows _why_ he nurtures, he knows _why_ he creates, and he knows _why_ he lives. It’s awfully strange, Castiel finds, how a person can just enter your life randomly and change it so profoundly within moments like Dean has with him.

He shakes his head, trying to put together the pieces of how it all happened, though he soon realizes it isn’t the _how_ that’s important, but the _how long_. How long will Dean be here in his life? How long will Dean want to be his friend? How long until this dream of his shifts back into reality?

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asks, and from the way the man touches his shoulder, rocking it gently, Castiel guesses how long he’s been stuck in his thoughts as they worked.

“Hmm?”

Dean looks at him, concern painted in his face, as if asking if he’s alright. But the man just shakes his head, probably knowing Castiel wouldn’t admit if he wasn’t, and continues, “I was just saying that since we’ve finished putting up the fence, maybe we could paint it before it gets too dark.”

Castiel nods and helps take out the paint cans and brushes, but his mind is elsewhere the entire time. Maybe if the paint never dries, his friend will never have to leave.

* * *

Three hours later, Castiel sits beside Dean on the steps of the back door, relaxing on the fringes garden with iced tea. Next to that of the chair under the trellis, this is the best view. 

The gaps in the flower beds have long since grown over with beautiful flowers and the fence stands proudly, beaming in the setting sun with it’s new coat of fresh paint. Castiel glances through the scene looking for something, for anything that needs to be fixed or planted, and finally, he’s forced to admit it’s perfect. Dean has really done a magnificent job. 

He sighs to himself.

“The paint will be dry soon.”

“What?” Dean asks, glancing at him over his glass, but Castiel can’t meet his gaze.

“We’re done with the fence, it’ll be dry soon. And there’s nothing else to do around the garden, so you’ll be free to go back to your life. You won’t be forced to come back and help me.”

Dean doesn’t reply for a moment, instead lowering his head to the ground. “Yeah, I almost forgot,” he says quietly and Castiel nods.

“Yeah.”

The moments pass slowly, sinking through the dense silence between them.

Castiel feels himself nod for the hundredth time, unsure of what to say. 

But he finally knows the answer. 

_How long_ means _now_. The garden is finished _now_. Dean will leave _now_. His friend will leave _now_.

He licks his lips and sticks hand out awkwardly between them, but doesn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “Well, thank you for helping me with the garden, Dean. It’s truly beautiful,” he says, and while he’s sad to say the words and it pains him to let go of this man whom he feels so close to, he means it all the same. He really does appreciate Dean and he really appreciates everything he’s done for him. His appreciation goes much deeper than the soil Dean dug to regrow his garden. Instead, it goes deep inside him, touching somewhere he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Dean freezes for a second at Castiel’s words, and takes his hand. He doesn’t shake it though, instead cradling Castiel’s hand in the warmth of his own. “No problem, man. I-It was the least I could do. And, uh, sorry for destroying it in the first place,” he mutters.

To this Castiel smiles softly. “Like I’ve always said, Dean. It’s okay; I forgive you. And actually, I am thankful for it. I wouldn’t have met you if you hadn’t.”

With a slight glance up, Castiel sees Dean color slightly in the same way he had hours before. And through the red, Dean bites his lip, nodding quietly. 

“Well, I’m glad to have met you too, Cas,” Dean replies, his voice a bit more gravely than usual. He then releases Castiel’s hand to stand up and wipe his palms on the thighs of his jeans. Castiel closes his fingers into a loose fist, missing the warmth the other provided.

“I better get going. It’s gettin’ late and I need to make Sammy dinner and do some chores around the house before I go to bed.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, forcing himself to take one last look at his friend before he leaves. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

Dean shakes his head stiffly. “Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean looks like he wants to say more, but after a few moments of standing awkwardly in front of Castiel, his face nearly falling to shadows with the dimming sky, he turns and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dean and Cas' Cookbook Recipe**   
>  [Good Morning Green Smoothie](http://www.yummly.com/recipe/Good-Morning-Green-Smoothie-630398?columns=3&position=12%2F27)


	20. Chapter 20

**“If We Could Turn the Hours Back In Time”**

**Chapter Track: _Circles_ \- Greta Svabo Bech**

 

Several things swarm Dean’s mind as he makes his way to his bike. They buzz in his ears and prick at his eyes in that familiar way, though he’d never admit aloud. He tries to ignore the thoughts and the questions they ask in favor of hopping on the bike and kicking its stand in one swift motion. He peddles as quickly as he can, letting the wind roar in his ears as it sweeps past, and he welcomes it like white noise. Anything loud enough to drown out his thoughts is a much welcomed gift because everything in his head right now isn’t something he wants to hear. The words bring emotion and emotion brings… well, nothing good, Dean’s learned. It got him into this whole mess after all. 

Dean pedals harder, telling himself the stinging in his eyes is from the wind. But despite his best efforts, its white noise doesn’t cancel out the thoughts nor the emotions like it should— the more he tries not to think about it, the more he thinks about it. And it’s with this, that all the thoughts and emotions he first thought when Castiel dismissed him come back. The feelings aren’t forceful like a crippling wave or anything of the sort, but they’re still heavy and thick in a strange way. They seep into his mind, flowing through the cracks, sinking through the skin, and Dean can barely keep track of each emotion as they pass— the strange feeling of rejection, the hurt that accompanies it, and the overwhelming confusion that intertwines those emotions together.

And it’s then that Dean realizes, above all else, he’s confused.

He just doesn’t understand. How could things change so quickly? And why?

Things had been going so well— or at least he thought they were. With all their conversations, and _Plight of Righteous Men_ , and time gardening together, it wasn’t hard to think so. Hell, he would have even gone far enough to say they were becoming _friends_. They’d been spending more time just talking instead of working in the garden, and they started teasing one another—even Castiel, the quiet little nerd he is, made a joke— and those are all friend-things, right? 

But whether or not the blooming friendship was there, Dean was actually beginning to enjoy gardening. He began to embrace the sense of calm it brought, and loved how the longer he spent under the canopy of trees, the more familiar he became with each individual plant. Being there almost felt like home. 

Of course, he knew his days spent in the garden with Castiel were numbered— he just didn’t know _how long_. And when the _how long_ meant _now_ , it took him off guard. He hadn’t expected everything to end so suddenly.

And now that he thinks about it, despite his efforts not to at first, Dean decides that that explains the flurry of emotions storming his thoughts at the moment. The surprise from the abrupt dismissal is what triggered the hurt and confusion. That has to be it. There’s no way he’d be this upset about friendship or whatever girly-shit is going on without there being some explanation. And his surprise is just that.

He nods to himself, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head that tells him otherwise. He’s content with this explanation. Even if his logic doesn’t make complete sense.

* * *

Castiel is still sitting on the back steps when Gabriel comes around the side. He hears his brother whistling— probably eyeing the new fence— but doesn’t bother looking up until Gabriel taps a cold bottle to his head.

“Don’t you have your own house now?” he asks, but takes the bottle of beer anyway.

Gabriel smirks. “Kali and I are having a barbecue next week so I thought I’d stop by to get your Christmas lights to decorate our back porch. And of course, I had to make sure my brother filled his beer quota for the year.”

Castiel smiles at that, but he can’t find it in himself to actually laugh. Instead, he rolls the cold glass between his hands, feeling the condemnation drip between his fingers, and tries to ignore the feeling of loss beginning to vaguely set in his skin.

“You know I don’t drink. Alcohol clouds my judgement.”

“That’s kind of the point, baby bro.”

Gabriel chuckles to himself, but when he quiets, the air between them stills into silence and Castiel can feel his brother eyeing him, but he doesn’t dare look up to meet his eye. At least not yet.

“So…” Gabriel begins. “Who peed in your Corn Flakes.”

Castiel scrunches his nose, “No one did. I don’t have Corn Flakes in my pantry.”

“Ugh. Seriously, Cas? You know what I mean.”

Sighing, Castiel finally chances a look at his brother. “Nothing’s wrong, Gabe. I’m fine.”

“Really? Then why are you sulking like your prom date ditched you? Is it your anxiety again? Did Dean do something to you?” He asks, casting a hardened glance at Cas and Cas just looks away again, shaking his head.

“Why do you always assume it’s Dean?”

“So it is him?”

“No! Well— yes,” Castiel sighs, dragging it out long and slow before speaking again. “He, uh. He left.”

He doesn’t have to look up again to know his brother is shaking his head in disbelief. “Shit. I knew that kid was good for—”

“No. No, Gabe. I told him to go.”

“Oh.”

Castiel looks around the garden, hoping his brother’s eyes follow the path his lead as he gazes past the fence, the flowers, and the trees they regrew. 

“We’re done. The garden is back to normal, back to the way it was— even better in some way. There was no point in making him stay longer; there’s nothing more he could do.”

Gabriel nods, taking in the scene and the words. “Then why are you so sad? I mean, you have your old life back right? Like you said: everything is back to normal.”

“I’m not sad,” he replies immediately by default, but as soon as the words come out, he wishes they’d come back in so he’d be able to turn it over again in his mind. The thing is, he is sad. That is, to put it in simplest terms. Over the last month or so, he began to warm up to Dean and see him for the man he really is. And if Castiel were honest with himself, Dean became quite a dear friend to him in that time. It’s sad to see him go.

But then again, just because Castiel believed them to be friends doesn’t mean the feeling is mutual. And Castiel didn’t want to force him to stay longer than he needed. 

Dean has a life beyond this garden. He has a younger brother and two jobs, and the last thing he needs to do is spend his only day off with some lonely guy with no friends. It’s not fair to him. Dean deserves better than that.

Gabriel sighs once again, clasping Castiel’s shoulder before standing up and racing around the house without explanation. Castiel quirks an eyebrow, leaning over as far as he can to get a glimpse of what his brother is doing, but his questions are answers within moments as Gabriel comes back around carrying a bag he no doubt got from the shed.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Well, clearly I’m getting the Christmas lights. We’re gonna decorate your backyard, buddy.”

Castiel can’t help but tilt his head in confusion. “But why? I thought you needed them for your barbecue?” 

“Forget about the barbecue. I can just get more at Target later. And besides, your garden needs some brightening up.” 

He opens his mouth to argue, but is cut off by his brother again. 

“Now, shut up and help me. We’re burnin’ daylight here.”

Nodding despite his remaining confusion, Castiel stands, setting aside his beer, to meet his brother in the center of the garden. He silently helps his brother untangle the lights and obeys his orders to string them across the length of the garden, drooping them across trees and his trellis and the fence as Gabriel sees fit.

Hanging every box of lights takes nearly two hours and by the time they finish, the sun has set completely, leaving the only source of light the stars and twinkling lights strung above their heads. 

Gabriel beams at him then, flashing the same goofy smile he had when they were kids, and Castiel feels a laugh bubble inside him. He takes the smile and the glow the lights bring like a fire in winter and finally he understands. He might not have friends or even a big loving family like he used to, but at least he has his brother— his crazy, ridiculous brother— who comes right when he needs him and hopefully, will never leave for good.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**“I feel so tired, I need to rest my head”** ****

**Chapter Track: _Whiskey Dreams_ \- Wild Child**

 

Surprisingly, everything returns to normal in the week following. Well, normal in the fact that Dean still works days at the garage and nights at the diner, making Sammy dinner in between. The only difference now is that his Sundays have cleared up once again, which he quickly remembers when he wakes up around six and begrudgingly forces himself to go back to bed. Dean had never thought he’d be one to complain about being able to sleep in or having a day off— God knows he needs it— but when he wakes up to see the sun break over the trees outside his window, he feels this strange pang in his chest, that subtle longing to be back in the dirt with the flowers and bees.

Dean ignores that pang though in favor of trying to go back to sleep, reminding himself as he goes that he should be glad he’s done. No man should work in a girly garden like that and enjoy it. No man should want to watch flowers bloom and preen in the sun.

But Castiel, he thinks. Castiel is the exception.

Castiel isn’t a man in the way Dean is. 

Not that he doesn’t look like a man or have manly features— and Dean is definitely _not_ thinking about those— it’s just that Castiel doesn’t seem to limit himself to just his masculinity in the way Dean does. Sure, Castiel has a voice like gravel and a muscular frame, but his personality has a softness to it that seems to smooth out his rough exterior. Just the way he lives his life, so calm and unfazed of what anyone else thinks and how in touch he is with his emotions and artistic side, is a stark contrast from the way Dean was raised. 

Dean was raised to be a man’s man— to be emotionally distant and unapologetic. To be the perfect soldier who fixes the world effortlessly, who doesn’t take no for an answer, and shows absolutely no sign of weakness—  especially that of femininity.

Not that Castiel is feminine, of course. But his actions— his gardening and baking and books—  are arguably so, and Dean knows he’s the kind of man his father would mock, the kind of man his father would bark slurs about and beat up in alleys behind bars— the kind of man his father refuses to believe his son is.

Dean shakes his head, nuzzling into the space between his pillow and mattress. After a moment of lying there, trying to ignore the obnoxious spring sticking into his back and the way the mattress sinks in the center, he groans, pushing himself out of bed. There’s no use lying around, doing nothing all day.

* * *

An hour later finds Dean at the garage, passing the front desk to enter Bobby’s office without so much as a knock. While Bobby is technically his boss, he’s pretty much family by stepping in when John wasn’t around, and to Dean, family is nothing if not barging in unannounced.

The old man is on the phone yelling at some guy when Dean enters, but pauses mid-‘idjit’ to gesture at Dean, something in between a greeting and ‘shut the damn door behind you.’ Either way, Dean obliges, carefully shutting the door before taking a seat in front of Bobby’s desk. 

Dean waits patiently, mindlessly fiddling with the box of cigarettes from the table beside him as Bobby yells, but doesn’t bother taking one out to light. He hasn’t smoked much since his time working with Cas. And he hadn’t really realized the fact until now; it wasn’t like his desire to just magically vanished or anything, but it’s almost like being with Cas in the garden made him forget to in a way.

He pushes the train of thought away though, trying not to drift into emotionally-attached territory involving Castiel and his time spent with the man.

He remembers his father’s list and rule number four, _‘never get emotionally attached,’_ repeating it to himself in his head and that’s that. As he’s told himself before, there’s no reason for him to feel so hurt and confused about leaving Cas and the garden. He was only paying his dues for the damage he caused. And Cas was nothing. He should have been nothing. And Dean shouldn’t have begun to think of him as a friend.

“You gonna get one or just stare at it all day, boy?” Bobby asks, making Dean jump in his seat. He hadn’t realized Bobby ended his phone call.

With one more glance to the box, he tosses it to his boss, shaking his head. “Nah, not today.”

Bobby nods, eyeing him carefully and Dean finds himself shrinking under the heaviness of his gaze. “So what do you want?” the man finally asks.

“‘Was wondering if you’d put me on the schedule today,” he says, and his boss raises a brow.

“Just today?”

“Well, and every Sunday after.”

“Why? You’re already working six-day weeks here, boy.”

Dean shrugs.

“Sammy wants to go to some fancy high school law program this summer, so I gotta pay for that. And with Dad M.I.A again, someone’s gotta pay the bills, right?” He replies, neglecting to mention his need to distract himself so he won’t think about Cas or the garden or baking or books or anything remotely feminine or ‘fag’-like as his dad would call it.

Pursing his lips, Bobby nods. Dean knows he’d be reluctant to let him work this much, but Bobby knows how much the Winchesters need money and he wouldn’t deprive Dean of that.

“S’pose so,” the man finally says. “If you need a break just say so though. Ya hear me, idjit?”

And Dean smiles. The last thing he’d need is a break.

* * *

The auto shop closes at four, but even after the other mechanics pack up and leave for the day, Dean stays. He’s finished up with the other cars he’s been working on so he’s able to turn his attention to his dinky old motorcycle.

Since he wrecked it, Dean had been meaning to fix it, but with his excessive workload and lack of space at the house, he’d never got around to it. Though thankfully today he has both time and space at Bobby’s garage to clean it up until it’s running smoothly. 

From what he can tell already, there’s a couple problems with the alignment and the front forks need to be replaced along with the fender. There’s probably a half a dozen more problems with the bike that need to be replaced or readjusted, and Dean knows he really has his work cut out for him this time. But as he digs his hands into his box of tools, he can’t help but wish he was digging his hands into a plot of soil.

Regardless of his ache for the garden, Dean loses himself in his work, gradually remembering why he loves being a mechanic so much. And hey, maybe it’s possible to love both gardening and cars the same.

While he doesn’t completely finish fixing up the motorcycle, he does leave the garage with a new sense of refreshment. The accomplishment is small, but Dean’s pretty happy in himself all the same. He’s happy he was able to rediscover his love of mechanics, happy he was able to get more time at the shop, and happy that he’s this much closer to having his motorcycle back. He won’t have to rely on Sam’s old bicycle anymore and just that small thought alone lifts his spirits a bit more as he peddles down the road.

The sense of refreshment is nearly short-lived though. And as he bikes along the darkened road to his house, thinking about what to make Sam and himself for dinner, he catches sight of a big black car in the driveway, light of the street lamp shining on the body, almost announcing it’s presence to the world.

His dad is home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, my lovelies!! I've been really busy lately with school and the documentary I'm filming for my website [Queerly & Co.](http://queerlyco.tumblr.com) It's a large project centered around LGBT representation in the media, and considering I'm doing a huge chunk of the work to get it done by a certain deadline, it's taking a lot of my time away from other things. That being said, I'm trying my hardest to keep up with RWYS and I promise I will finish it because while there's still mistakes and I'll need to rewrite it after I'm done (as this is the first draft), I'm still so proud of this fic and I'm so thankful for everything reading it and commenting and kudosing; So thank you all so much, I love you<3


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, firstly, I'm so sorry this took so long to update-- I've been so busy lately, and I've been trying to plot for my DCBB this year, but I promise I will finish this.  
> Secondly, I'm sorry if this is confusing-- basically, I deleted Ch22, and edited and added to it, so it's a bit longer now and hopefully flows better  
> Thank you again for your patience, I really appreciate it and I'm so thankful for those who have stayed with this story for so long.

**“Your Fakers are Fine, But Your Water Ain't Wine”**

**Chapter Track: _Slacks_ \- St. South**

 

Castiel spends the next week writing. The words come and go, but regardless of the inspiration or lack thereof, he forces himself to sit down and write. He allows himself to take breaks, of course— to tend the garden and fix himself meals— but for the majority of his days, he writes, trying to catch up on his latest novel whether he likes it or not. After all, he only has a little less than two months to finish the first draft now.

He sends Meg an email, updating her on his progress thus far, and drums his fingers against the keyboard, staring at the screen as it sends. He’s written a couple thousand words so far, and still needs a couple thousand more to reach his daily quota, but the words are coming slowly, no matter how hard he forces them. 

After a moment of blank staring, Castiel pushes himself to his feet, deciding to take yet another break. He pours himself a glass of iced tea and makes his way outside to sit in his rocking chair. The warm air rustles the trees around him, reminding him why he loves his garden so much. The sweet flowers, the trees, the air, the atmosphere— it’s so calming, so natural. And yet, he can’t help but feel that something’s missing.

* * *

For Dean, however, the problem isn’t that something’s missing; the problem is that something is here. Or rather, someone.

John is home.

Dean knows because the Impala is parked in the driveway and even from the street, the chatter of the television blares from the house. 

Part of Dean doesn’t want to go inside. He doesn’t want to face his father— not after the fight they had, the one that caused their father to leave in the first place. 

Dean doesn’t even know what to say, or where to begin. He’s frustrated, hurt, angry— any of these feelings he could start with— but most of all, he’s afraid.

What will his father say this time? What will he do?

This is why he won’t go inside— why his feet stop in the middle of the street, unease creeping through his body as he eyes the Impala and the house holding its driver.

This is why he stays put, loitering outside instead of continuing to the door. He tries to ignore all signs of John— the blaring television and the monster of a car in the driveway— in favor of turning his back and digging his shoes through the dirt in the yard until there’s a half a dozen groves in the grass below him. 

The stalling works for a good ten minutes, but eventually, dark clouds roll in, shedding raindrops in their wake, and Dean is forced to go inside.

He kicks his shoes off on the front matt as the door closes behind him and when he looks up, Dean catches his father staring at him. His stomach drops, and he can’t find his breath.

“Hello, sir,” he mumbles, crossing through the living room to the hallway.

“Dean,” his dad replies. And that’s the end of the conversation. He doesn’t ask where John has been like he imagined he would. He doesn’t pry, he doesn’t burst, or even mention the fight they had the last time they saw one another. Instead, he pushes all questions of John and his whereabouts to the back of his mind, and makes his way to his and Sam’s bedroom. 

Sam, of course, is reading on his bed when he enters, though once Dean shuts the door behind him, barely muting the sound of the television, he tosses the book aside. 

“Dad’s home,” Sam says, and Dean grunts.

“I noticed.”

“Did you ask him where he was?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Sam shakes his head, cursing under his breath. “Like hell it doesn’t.”

“Watch it, Sam,” he snaps, and although he turns away, he can feel his brother glaring at him in annoyance and something else— something bitter and rough like frustration or pity.

“Why? Why the fuck shouldn’t it matter?” his brother spits. “The guy just drops off the face of the earth for— what— a month and a half? Without calling, or you know, giving us a warning like ‘Oh, I’m gonna be gone for a while.’”

Dean shakes his head, but Sam’s still there, gaining confidence in his rage, and crumbling Dean’s walls with every word. 

Everything Sam says might be true— it might be something Dean knows to be true, though he won’t admit aloud— but that doesn’t mean he wants to listen.

He takes a deep breath, trying to wait out the storm.

“What a goddamn asshole,” Sam continues. “He just leaves us, without saying anything—”

Dean rubs his eyes and exhales— trying his best to keep it together while his brother yells at him.

 “—and I know you and Dad were fighting the night before but—”

He breaks.

“ _Enough_ , Sam,” he growls, turning around to glare at his brother. Sam recoils, closing his mouth, but staring back at Dean hardly. And Dean sighs, pleading, “Enough.”

He climbs into his bed, not bothering to change out of his oil-stained jeans, and faces the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying his hardest to ignore the television from the other room and the sound of his brother’s breathing.

And yet, he hears his brother mumbling under his breath. 

“I’m sorry Dean. I’m just frustrated with him. What he does— it’s not fair to us. It’s not fair to me, but most of all, it’s not fair to you. He’s always picking on you, and ordering you around— I see the way it affects you, and it’s just not fair. It’s not—”

And he can’t help the way his eyes sting, heaviness pressing against his eyes as wetness seeps through the lids.

“Enough, Sam. Enough.”

* * *

The days go back to normal again. Or, at least, as normal as Dean’s life can be now that John’s home.

Dean still goes to work, Sammy still goes to school, and John sleeps on the couch throughout the day, moaning about some ‘disability check’ as he rolls in and out of consciousness. And still, the days continue to pass. 

While Sam doesn’t bring up the issue again, what he said the night John returned still lingers in the air around Dean. His words stay with Dean as he clocks in and out of work each day and works on cars in between. They push against his mind as he cleans up the house, taking care of Sammy and cooking dinners each night. And they wallow through his dreams when he sleeps.

The reminder is constantly there— beating against his mind and screaming with every ache in his body.

Deep down, Dean really does want to know why John up and left— Sam, at the very least, deserves to know that much. Yet, part of him doesn’t want to ask. Asking is opening a can of worms, and Dean is afraid of the answer. 

He knows the reasons— there’s far too many to name— but so long as he doesn’t hear the words themselves, he can pretend they aren’t true.

* * *

The thing about the truth is that whether it’s spoken aloud or not, it still has a way of bleeding through the cracks in silences. And oftentimes the sting from that— the unspoken knowledge between two beings— is more painful than its alternate. Or at least, that’s what Dean believes.

They haven’t yet spoken about the argument or the underlying meaning behind it, and it seems that neither want to bring it up— bringing it up would be acknowledging what happened, and acknowledging what happened would be asking for the hate and disappointment from his father. But again, just because they haven’t actually talked about it, and John hasn’t blatantly spoken his disapproval, doesn’t mean it’s not there. His father is a man of few words, and thus, expresses his disappointment in other ways.

Dean senses it in the way John eyes him as he runs around the house, cooking and cleaning before work. His father doesn’t say anything, of course, but his hard gaze is still there, never breaking. And it’s then, in the midst of doing these chores under his father’s watchful eye, that Dean feels weak. He feels like the mother, a woman of the house, cooking and cleaning. He feels like he’s missing an apron and hair curlers, and feels ridiculous just the same. He wonders why he even bothers to fix the trailer they live in. He wonders why he believed he could become someone his father was proud of. He wonders why he still cares.

Two months ago, Dean decided he’d had enough. Enough of his father’s violent disapproval, enough of his father’s hate of humanity and of his sons. He decided to rebel— to work hard to make a life for him and Sam, to read books about faggots, as his father would say, and to stand up to him when he came home drunk and angry.

Two months ago, Dean made a choice.

He drove his motorcycle and crashed it. He thought he made a friend, maybe even learned something new about himself, but his friend sent him away.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t bring it up again.

He had his taste of free will. He had the opportunity to make something of himself and in one fatal swoop, he fucked it all up.

Now all that’s left is the memories of it all, the unspoken disappointment and the way it looms in the atmosphere between himself and his father constantly. 

So, Dean doesn’t push.

The last thing he wants to do is mess things up again. He doesn’t want to argue again— he’s too exhausted to fight, too scared his father will leave again. He’s learned his lesson from their previous fight and as long as John’s disapproval remains unspoken, Dean is okay with pushing the lingering problems to the back of his mind.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**“Fuck Me, I’m Falling Apart”**

**Chapter Track: _No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross_ \- Sufjan Stevens**

 

Working late hours at both the garage and the diner is just one of the many lengths Dean goes to to avoid his father. He picks up all the shifts he can, coming in early and staying out late—making sure to only come home when he knows his father will be asleep or, better yet, out for the night.

His schedule makes the days long and the weeks longer. Every evening, Dean clocks out with blisters on his feet and a throbbing pain in his skull, but through it all he tells himself it’s worth it. The exhaustion from constant work lets him avoid the exhaustion from John’s scowls, and if that’s the price he has to pay to avoid the potential fallout then so be it— he’ll work himself to death if it means he can ignore the constant reminder how much of a fuck-up he is.

Or at least that's what he tells himself as he clocks out of the Roadhouse for the night. 

It’s close to nine by the time he finishes his last table, and though he’s scheduled to be the first out, Dean is still surprised when Ellen lets him go early, especially on a Friday night. That being said, ‘let’ is a passive term.

Ellen, his firecracker of a boss, practically had to kick him out of the restaurant, saying something about getting food in his stomach and some much needed rest.

Any other day Dean would have argued, but after taking a look in the bathroom mirror and seeing the dark circles under his eyes, even he had to agree with her. He really did need to sleep— not just a cat nap of four hours or less, but actual snoring-and-dead-to-the-world kind of sleep.

He rubs his eyes, welcoming the dry ache, as he walks out to the parking lot. Sam’s little red bicycle is chained to a nearby lamppost. It looks pathetic sitting in the shadows of the larger, muscular motorcycles, and just looking at its motor-less frame and chipped paint makes Dean sigh. What he wouldn’t give to have his bike back in working condition.

His phone buzzes as he kneels to open the combination lock, briefly distracting him from his transportation woes. He pulls the ancient device from his back pocket and reads the illuminated text on the screen.

_‘When are you coming home tonight?,’_ the message reads and Dean doesn’t bother checking who the sender is. Only his brother would text in perfectly typed sentences.

_‘dunno sammy. is dad still awake,’_ he types back. It takes him a couple minutes before he can send the message. He still doesn’t understand the concept of texting and his fingers don’t type as fast as his younger brother’s, but he gets there eventually and is almost relieved when presses ‘send’.

Because it’s Sam, only a couple seconds pass before his phone buzzes again.

_‘Yeah, he’s drinking a beer and watching the game.’_

Dean runs a hand down his face with a sigh, feeling the grime from the long day on his fingertips. He just wants to go home and get a shower before falling into his bed and napping for days, but the last thing he needs is to be there while John’s awake and risk his drunken rage.

Taking a reluctant glance at the dinky little bicycle sitting beside him, he types out his reply.

_‘wont be home til late sammy. gonna work on my bike for a while. gnite’_

Dean swears he can feel his brother sighing on the other end even before he hits send.

_‘Good night, Dean,’_ Sam’s reply reads, and Dean pockets his phone before riding to the garage for the night.

* * *

Two hours later, Dean has his hands in the engine of his motorcycle. By now, he’s mostly finished. 

With the help of Bobby and the discount for ordered parts, Dean’s already replaced the front forks, which greatly fixed the steering and alignment. All that’s left now is to clean up the engine a bit and replace the fender. 

He beams, looking up and down at the beauty before him. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll be up and running more smoothly than ever.

Deciding to take a break, Dean pulls out his phone and presses the ‘on’ button. The screen lights up moments later, forcing him to squint in the bright glow. 

He had shut it off once he got to the garage, knowing that Sam had gone to bed and no else one would need to reach him. Other than his brother and his bosses, no one really used his number to text him, so having it on was just a waste of battery, by Dean’s logic. Or so he had thought.

As soon as the logo disappears and the main screen appears in its place, the phone vibrates with a dozen or so missed messages and calls. Dean furrows his brow, but he can hardly keep up as the notifications flash on and off, overlapping one another as they come.

In the midst of the flashing new messages, one text catches his eye before it vanishes— 

_‘I’m sorry, Dean.’_

His stomach drops. _Fuck._

Without bothering to clean up the scattered tools or lock up for the night, Dean runs to the bicycle waiting for him outside and hops on, feet pounding on the peddles. A slew of curses tumble from his mouth as he rides, but his mind races with the words of Sam’s text ringing over and over again.

_'I'm sorry, Dean.'_

Dean didn’t need to read the other messages to know what his brother meant. Hell, he didn’t even need to call and make sure everything was okay. There’s no point in checking what he already knows. 

There's something wrong. And Dean needs to fix it.

There’s no other reason why Sam would be apologizing. Sam is never in the wrong; Sam never needs to apologize. 

He has no idea what’s happening, but all he knows is that it’s John. 

_Fuck_. It has to be John.

There's no other way.

Their father must have done _something_ or said _something_ , and Sam must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now he’s going to pay for it if Dean doesn't get there in time. He nearly growls at the thought.

If John even dares to do anything— fucking anything at all— there will be hell to pay. 

John can treat Dean like shit, he can scream at him and push him and call him a fag and a disappointment and whatever shit he thinks of— Dean doesn’t care. But over his cold, dead body will Dean ever accept John treating Sammy that way.

Waves of dirt puff from under the wheels as Dean turns into their driveway. He jumps off without stopping, sending the bicycle toppling over into the lawn as it tries to continue on without a driver.

Dean can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he storms towards the front door, but it isn't until he reaches the steps that he realizes it's the only thing he _can_ hear.

Everything around him is silent.

Any noise, any shouting or arguments Dean had assumed would be reverberating from the house are unheard, inviting a coil of unease to pool in the pit of his stomach.

The adrenaline still burns but his pulse has slowed and he tries ignores the growing discomfort. He lays his hand on the door, and with a breath, he pushes it open, not knowing what he’ll find.

Inside, his eyes immediately find Sam at the dining table, sitting upright and stiff with his hands in his lap. There's no sign of trauma— no red marks or blooming bruises— but if his tightened jaw and restless hands are anything to go by, words have been said.

As if feeling his brother's gaze on him, Sam glances up, though he doesn't turn his head from where it's lowered to the ground. Their eyes meet and Dean can hear Sam's text message apology ringing in his head yet again.

_'I'm sorry, Dean.'_

His brother lowers his eyes but not before glancing across the room quickly and Dean follows his fleeting gaze to where their father sits on the sofa.

John, like Sam, is cool and stiff in his presence. Though unlike his youngest son, John has a way of towering over others even when he’s sitting below them.

His eyes are dark and foggy from the bottle in his hand but they're alert all the same and follow his son's every moment. As if on cue, Dean feels his blood run cold. He opens his mouth to speak, to greet his father in a final attempt to evade conflict, but John cuts him off.

"Dean," he says, his voice gravelly and low. And Dean nods, any words he had swallowed whole in his throat.

His father shifts, grabbing an object beside him and holding it out so Dean can see. He's a couple yards away, but he immediately recognizes the blue-bound cover and dog-eared pages, and his face burns.

_Shit_.

 "What the fuck is this," his father asks, and there's something about the calm disgust in his voice that terrifies Dean.

He doesn't answer.

He can feel Sam's wide gaze on him and John, sending waves of conflicting emotions with it. Dean feels the pity his brother has for him and for the shit he goes through, but he also feels the rage that Sam hoards for the pain John subjects him to.

Without glancing at his brother, Dean silently pleads with him not to say anything— to not get involved, to not make it worse.

"What the _fuck_ is this faggot book doing here again, Dean?" John repeats, nearly spitting the words through his teeth. "Didn't I tell you months ago not to read this goddamn shit?"

"Dad—" Sam begins, but is cut off immediately.

"Not now, Sam," John barks. "This is between me and your brother."

He glances back at Dean, his eyes darker than before. "So, Dean. Tell me."

And Dean swallows, unable to speak let alone think. Everything— all these thoughts and feelings— come down on him like a mass wave of conflicting emotions and Dean is drowning. The memories come back to him all at once— their argument, John's departure, and Dean's inevitable crash. And swarming underneath that are the emotions— Dean's fear of his father's disappointment conflicting with the overwhelming need to separate himself from the negativity altogether.

But as everything crashes down, flooding Dean's mind and  weighing him deeper and deeper down, he realizes the common motif of his troubles. All of this— all this pain and confusion and suffering— inevitably comes down to the book. The book in his father's hands.

It’s the reason.

It's the reason he realized some months ago that life isn't black and white, and maybe he fits more into the gray than he originally thought.

It's the reason why his father fought with him that night, and why Dean fought back for the first time.

It's the reason why his father left, and it’s the reason why Dean realized that maybe his assertion wasn't worth disgust.

When it all comes down to it, _Plight of Righteous Men_ is the reason for all of the turmoil and chaos in his life.

And with the conflict and confusion it's brought in Dean's life, he realizes he's completely and utterly speechless. He doesn't know how to respond to his father.

He _can't_ respond to his father.

He isn't sure whether to stick with his gut and accept whatever punishment his father subjects him to or to be true to himself and tell his father what he really thinks. 

He knows what he _wants_ to do. God knows how badly he wants to say what he thinks. But Dean knows the outcome. He knows the consequences, and doesn't want to risk his father leaving again. He can barely support Sammy and himself on his own. If John leaves again, Dean will have to get _another_ job and he’s already working seven days a week. As much as he hates to admit it, he can’t continue without his father.

He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the stress and fear pulling him even deeper under. Everything is happening now, and it’s going too fast, not waiting for Dean to keep up. There’s too much to do, too much to say, and Dean can’t even find a way to speak it because he still doesn’t know what he thinks or what he feels. He just is. But just being isn’t enough. Not now. Not standing in front of his father, fearful of saying the wrong thing— _being_ the wrong thing. And that fear is paralyzing.

But Dean’s silence isn’t enough. And when his father says his name, jolting him back into reality, he jumps.

“It doesn’t matter,” he blurts, hoping to God John can’t hear his small voice shake. “I forgot to get rid of it from when we talked about it last.” And that’s that. He’s decided under the weight of his father’s stare what it’ll be— he’s giving in. And who cares if it’s a lie. Dean’s learned his lesson. He’ll lie— he’ll keep that part of him a secret, so long as his father doesn’t leave again.

But when John nods, finally tossing the book aside like garbage, Dean doesn’t feel relief in the lie. His eyes follow the book as it tumbles across the floor, bending pages and scuffing the cover, and he feels like something has been lost.

“Good,” John says, standing and approaching Dean. “I was worried last time we talked. If people see you reading that faggot shit, they’ll think you’re one of them.”

He claps Dean on the shoulder stiffly. “I’m glad you’ve grown into a better man while I’ve been gone. Now get rid of that shit, Dean.”

John passes, heading into his bedroom down the hall and with the sound of the door slam behind him, Dean feels himself deflate. The air and emotions previously condensed inside Dean finally escape. While the blow-up in was avoided in its own right, it leaves Dean’s body hollow and light.

From a distance, he hears Sam apologizing again. He hears his brother apologizing for conflict, for their father’s behavior, and the fact that Dean felt like he had to lie. He hears Sam apologize for everything, but Sam’s words are nothing more than sounds. He can hear the syllables and tones coming from Sam’s lips, but his brain doesn’t process their meaning in the slightest.

Something hard is placed in his hands, though he doesn’t bother looking down. He feels the pages skimming his fingers and the comforting brush of his brother’s fingers as they leave the book in Dean’s grasp. 

But he doesn’t need sympathy, or his brother’s pity. He just needs air. 

He turns from his brother, and heads out the front door, feeling the atmosphere's shift from when he first entered. He hears his brother ask a question, but he just shakes his head.

“I have to go, Sammy,” he hears himself say. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

And while he’s leaving, not unlike how their father left, Dean hopes Sam will forgive him. Because he promised. Dean promised he would come home. And he would honor that.

But for now, he just needs time. He needs time to be somewhere else, to be himself. And he can’t do that here. Not with his father home, watching him like a hunter watches its prey.

He wanders down the driveway and up the street, and only when he can longer feel the pitying gaze of his brother, he realizes there’s nowhere else to go. 

He needs to be somewhere, he needs to go somewhere. But there’s nowhere. There’s no place that will take him, no place that will comfort him in the dead of night. Nowhere except…

Maybe it’s the hollowness of mind, the disappointment of the lie, or the time of night that clouds his judgement. But regardless of the reason, the cloud has been set, and he pulls out his phone to find a place he needs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really difficult to write, mostly because I hate confrontation— can't you tell?  
> Anyway, this next chapter I have waited almost a _year_ to write, so cross your fingers that it'll come quickly. And don't worry, it'll be a good mix of fluff and angst :)


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